


life's a lesson

by gracessence



Category: Marvel
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracessence/pseuds/gracessence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he wanted was to go home, take a shower, and dry off. He didn’t want to think about his mission anymore, he didn’t want to see another file on anyone being a possible threat to SHIELD. They could take over SHIELD for all he cared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rain came down sharp. Civilians scurried under awnings; others ran to their cars with newspapers or purses over their heads, which didn’t help much. The rain came down so quick and hard it cast a white veil over the city, making it incredibly hard to see. Clint stood atop the roof of a restaurant, carefully watching everyone running to dry ground. But he wasn’t people watching, although he wished he were; it was a much easier activity than have to track down a wanted assassin. How the  _hell_ was he supposed to see anything in all this rain? He took a quick scan around, trying to squint the rain out of his eyes but failing miserably, and reached into his quiver. He pulled out an arrow with a rounded, bulky head, and two flashing red lights on either side.

“Come on, Barton. Open your eyes,” he muttered to himself, looking down at the street corners. 

 A lady stood at the crosswalk, pushing the button furiously to cross, with her purse held high above her head. Clint scoffed. On another corner, Clint caught sight of a man in a heavily soaked grey sweater making his way down the street. His grip on his bow tightened and he positioned the arrow against it. The man held his head down, inevitably knocking into a women coming in the opposite direction. Clint watched carefully as the man looked back and raised his left arm to pull up his hoodie; his sleeve fell down slightly, and a glint bounced off his arm. At this Clint pulled back his bow.  _Inhale. Pull. Aim._ Somehow these steps had always slowed town time around him, just for a split second for him to steady his aim. He almost never missed. Almost.  

The man suddenly jolted forward into a sprint, knocking over anyone in his way just as Clint released the arrow. It soared through the air with a hiss heading straight for him, but hit a newsstand he ran by instead, blowing it up and littering the streets with torn up paper. Clint lowered his bow and watched as the man ducked around a corner, out of sight. He sighed. First miss, he thought. Not too bad, but still not good enough. This wasn’t going to go over well with Director Fury. 

There were only so many things Clint could put up with. Fighting off aliens that come out of a portal in the sky, he could handle. Leaving the Circus to join SHIELD, he could handle. Being  _almost_ completely deaf, he could handle. But, getting on Director Fury’s bad side? He’d rather leave the Circus again.

 

* * *

 

A puddle formed at Clint’s feet as the door shut behind him. Nick Fury eyed him suspiciously as he sat at his desk. Clint clutched his bow tightly in his left hand and opened his mouth to speak. 

“Shut up, Barton,” Fury said, his voice booming.

Clint’s face scrunched up as his hearing aid gave off a sharp high ring in his right ear and he pulled it out, and held it in his hand as Fury continued.

“I chose you for this mission because I trust you enough to get the job done right. And not only do you come back here empty handed, but with a bullshit excuse for it,” he said, his voice had softened, except Clint couldn’t tell if it was from taking out his hearing aid or if he was genuinely being quiet. “You’re a Marksman, Clint, act like one.” 

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

Fury glanced at the hearing aid in Clint’s hand and held his hand out. 

“Give it here.”

“What—oh!” He took a few steps closer to his desk and dropped the hearing aid in his hand. Fury examined it and muttered under his breath as he opened a drawer and rummaged around in it. “Aw, it just needs some new batteries, really,” Clint said, rubbing the back of his neck. Fury shut the drawer and examined the hearing aid with a magnify glass.

“This isn’t waterproof,” he said tossing the hearing aid onto the table, like it was a toy, and Clint winced slightly as it hit the table. “Didn’t we give you waterproof ones, Barton?”

Clint nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and Fury raised a brow at him. 

“Why aren’t you wearing them?”

“Uh…” A low hiss escaped Clint’s mouth. “Sorta misplaced them.”

The hearing aid hit the wall opposite Clint as he left Fury’s office. The door slammed behind him, and he could hear Fury still cursing about him. He glanced down at his hearing aid and knelt down to pick it up. He dusted it off and secured it back in his ear. It was now working twice as badly as before he had taken it off.

Still dripping wet from the rain, he walked towards the elevators and pushed the down button. All he wanted was to go home, take a shower, and dry off. He didn’t want to think about his mission anymore, he didn’t want to see another file on anyone being a possible threat to SHIELD. They could take over SHIELD for all he cared. Maybe he’d go back to the Circus…

“Barton.” 

Clint turned to see Natasha walking towards him. Her hair hung in low curls just past her shoulders, and fell forward, covering her face as she picked up something off the ground and handed it to him.

“I’m always picking up after you,” she said, holding out his SHIELD badge. 

“Thanks,” he said flatly, and stuffed the badge into his front pocket.

“You wanna talk about what Fury said?” She asked, slowly speaking each word and he turned away from her.

“No, but I guess you’re not really gonna give me a choice, are you?” He asked.

“Fine. Don’t tell me what he said, but—“ She paused as the elevator door opened. “I can help you with—what’s his name?

Clint walked into the elevator. Some people backed away from him as he was dripping all over the place.

“I don’t know his name, Nat. Fury wouldn’t disclose that information with me—are you in or out?” He asked before the door started closing. Natasha quickly slid through the opening and shoved Clint over into the empty corner.

“What  _do_  you know about him?” She asked. Clint shrugged. 

“They call him The Winter Soldier, he has a metal arm—left arm—and, uh—“ Clint scratched his head. “That’s all I got—oh! And he’s some kind of trained assassin, by Hydra. So he’s a number one threat on Shields list. 

The elevator door opened letting out everyone, and Natasha followed Clint outside.

“Hold on,” she said, catching up to him. “Did you say The Winter Soldier?” 

Clint shook off his bow and took off his quiver as he spoke. 

“Yeah, why? D’you know him?” He asked.

“I was looking through Shield files and his name came up—his real name. God, what was it?” She hissed as Clint pulled them aside. “What are you doing?” 

“My arrows are soaked—hold this, will you?” He shoved his quiver at her and she swung it over her shoulder.

“Clint, are you even listening to me?” She asked as he examined his arrows one by one.

“Yeah, ‘course. You were saying something about The Winter Soldier and that you know his real name, or you  _think_  you know it,” he said. 

“I  _know_  it! It was something weird, like—“ 

“Like Romanov?” He said, grinning. She shoved him and he almost dropped his arrows. “Easy! One of these is explosive. Do you wanna keep your legs?” 

“There was more about him, you know. I don’t think he’s much of a threat,” she said, ignoring Clint’s outburst.

“Oh no. I’m not going against Fury’s orders. Nat, he’ll kill me,” he said, grabbing the quiver back from her and shoving the arrows back in. 

“That didn’t stop you before,” she said, more to herself than to him, but he heard and looked at her. 

“Natash—“ 

“Look, just let me look him up one more time before you go impaling him or…blowing him up,” she said. 

Clint swung his quiver over his shoulder and nodded. 

“Fine, but if Fury kills me—“ 

“Let me deal with Fury,” she said and ran back to way they had come.

 

* * *

 

Lucky trotted over the couch as Clint set down his quiver beside it. He pet him hastily and dragged himself to the bathroom to shower. Twenty minutes later he was in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying his day over and over again. He grabbed the nearest pillow to him and shoved it in his face. How could he have missed? He thought. He had factored all variables when he made that shot, wind, rain, height, and distance. He took the pillow off his face and laid his head on it. Maybe he wasn’t much of a Marksman after all.  


	2. Chapter 2

Being late was something Clint had mastered. A headache pounded against the inside of his skull as he pulled on his gear, swung his quiver over his shoulder, grabbed his bow and headed out the door. He took to rooftops and made his way across the city. The air was crisp against his face, and the morning sun beamed down on him, the brightness hurt his eyes and pain show through his head. Part him wanted to shoot an arrow into the sun and blow it up. But even he didn’t have an arrow _that_ powerful. He jumped down into an alleyway and walked the rest of the way, and thought about what Natasha had said. If she really thinks he’s not a threat, then why would Fury want him dead? Some things didn’t quite seem to add up.

The elevator opened and he walked out. He needed those files on The Winter Soldier before Fury sent him on another chase. He made his way around the entire floor, checked every office, every room. Where the hell was she?

“Barton!” Fury’s voice came booming across the room and Clint turned to him, his head throbbed. “I got a lead on The Winter Soldier.” His stomach sank.

“Is Natasha—“  
  
“She’s out today, Barton. Now—“  
  
“Where?” He said, stalling.

“That’s confidential.” He said sternly and Clint pressed his lips together. “I want you out on Fifth. The Winter Soldier was spotted there thirty minutes ago. I have Shield agents guarding the perimeter, and they’ll contain him as long as they can till you get there.”

“Yeah, okay—thanks,” Clint said but he was too busy thinking about what Natasha had told him about him _not_ being a threat. And he couldn’t help but want to ask. He looked up at Fury who stood over him with his brows pushed so close together they almost formed one line. 

“You got something to tell me, Barton?” He asked. Clint shook his head.  
  
“No—no, sir.”  
  
“Then get out of here.” 

Clint turned back to the elevators, his head still pounding against his skull.

“And Barton,” Fury called, Clint turned to him. “Don’t miss this time.” 

* * *

 

Fifth was blocked off and bystanders stood round to watch. Clint eyed them from the rooftops wishing for once they’d mind their own business. He hated having to be careful around them; it made his job so much harder than it already was. Of course he had gotten off lucky yesterday with the exploding newsstand. No one got hurt, except the comic section. 

“Clint?” A female voice spoke through his earpiece. 

“Yeah, I’m on the roof,” he said, looking around. 

“He’s in an apartment building,” she said.

Clint furrowed his brows.  
  
“I’m on my way,” he said and jumped from roof to roof until he caught sight of a team of Shield agents outside, guarding the entrance. Maria Hill was standing just down the steps of the building and she turned to Clint as he walked up to her.

“Good to see you, Barton,” she said, walking with him up the stairs.

“Is he armed?” He asked as she opened the front door for him.

“They’re always armed,” she said matter-of-factly.

The door shut with a creak behind him and he immediately pulled out an arrow from his quiver. They had dried since yesterday, although he didn’t have time this morning to test them out. He suddenly felt heaviness in his stomach. He couldn’t miss a second time, that’s not what he was. A marksman never missed. He wasn’t just some guy with an arrow and he needed to prove that to Fury, and more importantly to himself.

As he climbed the stairs he thought of what might be waiting for him. Would he be able to disarm him? _Opening a door with a bow and arrow wasn’t always easy, especially if someone’s holding a gun at you from behind it_ , he thought and his grip tightened around his bow. He got up the first flight of stairs unscathed and found himself shaking. It was as if there was an earthquake inside of him, and he didn’t know how to make it stop. What was going on? He had never been so nervous over a mission before. He took a deep breath and started up the next flight of stairs. Being stupid, that’s all it was. Natasha just got into his head as she always had, and threw him off his game.

_Hello?_

Clint tensed and pulled back his bow and arrow, and marched up stairs. The voice came from the room just above the next flight of stairs and he stuck to the wall. He heard rustling and shifting inside the room as he approached it cautiously. If he died here he was sure Fury would make sure everyone remembered him as the marksman who missed his targets. He stood next to the door that was opened— _thank god_ —and he could make out a shadow from inside. Pivoting slightly, he pushed the door open with the front of his bow and stormed in, bow held high, arrow pulled back. He wasn’t going to miss this —

“No—no, please,” the man said, sat on the floor by the window and Clint almost dropped his guard. His hand loosened slightly around his bow, and he started to release the pull on the string, but then he straightened up again.

“Lets get this over with, okay?” Clint said. His throat felt like gravel as he spoke and he cleared it.

The Winter Soldier looked up at him, his long hair falling out of his face so Clint could see him clearly, and what he saw there made him hesitate. He stammered in holding his bow to lowering it for a few seconds.

“I’m not…I’m not armed,” he said, his voice sounded distant from his body and Clint looked over his shoulder then back at him. The man slowly moved his hand away from his hip and Clint stood his guard once more, keeping a close eye on his movements. Then he saw something he wasn’t expecting to see. Just above the man’s hip, he saw red stains on his sweater, and his hands were covered in blood. 

“Shit,” Clint muttered under his breath, still contemplating whether he should put his bow down or not. The man coughed and winced and Clint felt a weight on his chest. He couldn’t just let this guy died here, could he? What would that make of him? Surely he had morals. And anyway, he thought, the guy’s not armed. But, just to be sure. “Who do you answer to?”  
  
“What?” He asked and it was obvious the question meant nothing to him, but Clint persisted.

“Where do your loyalties lie?” He asked, all the while looking for a way to —

The man shifted, trying to get up and Clint felt his head reeling on him. This was it, he wasn’t going to be able to shoot him now; he’d made contact. The one thing he wasn’t supposed to do. The moment you make contact with a target, you start feeling something for them, anything. Be it, remorse, empathy, sorry, you feel it, and now that’s what Clint was feeling. Something about this whole scene told him that he wasn’t supposed to kill him—at least not now, not here. He was probably going to regret this.

“My loyalties? I don’t under—“ He winced and moaned in pain and Clint couldn’t bear it any longer. He lowered his bow and stuck his arrow back in his quiver.

“Can you move?” He asked, closing the door behind them, and knelt down beside him.

“Yeah, I…I think,” he struggled.

“Natasha’s going to kill me for this,” he mumbled and the man lagged. He blinked blankly and looked at Clint as if he had said something offensive, but seconds later he was back to clutching his hip.

Clint helped him to his feet and shied away from the window as best he could. This was the last thing he wanted anyone from SHIELD to see. And he pulled them both out of the room. 

 _“Clint, what’s taking you so long in there?”_ Maria Hill’s voice came from inside his ear and his heart jumped. _Lie. Come on, Barton._

“He’s not here.”  
  
_“What?”_ Her voice pierced him.  
  
“I checked all floors twice. There’s no one here,” he said, and bit his bottom lip, throwing his head back, waiting for her answer.  
  
“ _You’re sure?”_  
  
“Yeah. He might’ve gotten out through the sewers before you guys got here.”

“ _I’ll let Fury know. I’ll clear everyone out—want me to wait for you?”_

“No! —“ He cleared his throat. “No, it’s—I’ll find my way back. Thanks.” And he pulled the earpiece out and shoved it into his pocket.

Clint set him down against the wall, carefully. They sat there until all SHIELD agents had gone. He took his time to examine the man’s wound, and finding that it wasn’t as bad, and that the blood had stopped, brought some kind of relief to him. At least he didn’t have to take him to the hospital, he thought. The pain was still present, although he had stopped wincing about it, Clint could see it in his face.

“How’d that happen?” He asked, not really sure why he cared.

“One of them shot me,” he said, his voice faint. “Bullet’s still in there.”  
  
“Aw no,” Clint said. “Bullet’s gotta come out.”

The man gave a low hiss and Clint turned to him.

“Why are you doing this?” He asked, examining his wound. It had started to bleed again, and he pressed his palm to it.

“Honestly?” Clint said and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know.”

The man looked him over.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
This was bad. Clint knew this was bad. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen today, or ever in fact. There was no way he could make this worse. Well, he could, but was he going to? He glanced sideways at the man’s hip still bleeding through his fingers, and he gritted his teeth.

“Clint,” he said, and felt the floor fall out under him. This was bad. But then he took a chance. He was here; he might as well ask him too. God knows when he’d see Natasha again, anyway. But as he asked he saw something in the man’s eyes fade, and his jaw set. “Sorry…I didn’t mean to—“ 

“No, it’s not—“ He stopped, repositioned himself in a way that didn’t send sharp pain all over his body, and stared blankly at the floor as he spoke. “I don’t know my name.”  
  
There was an odd silence after that felt as though it had lasted forever. But Clint wasn’t sure what to say. What could he say? ‘Gee, sorry!’ or ‘I know what that’s like!’ He didn’t want to come off as insensitive, so he let the silence drag on.  Instead, he thought about how he was going to get them both out of here without having him bleed out half way to his place. It’s not like he could call Fury asking for a lift. ‘Hey, Fury—yeah I have The Winter Soldier here, but funny story…’ That would never work. And it wasn’t like Natasha was keeping herself in range. He let out a throaty groan and let his head fall forward.

“I should go,” the man said, struggling to pull himself up.  
  
“What?” Clint snapped his head up at him. “Where are you going to go with _that?_ ”  
  
“I’ll figure it out.” He was on his feet, blood dripped down onto his jeans and by his shoes, staining the wooden floor. 

Clint didn’t stop him. He watched him down the stairs and heard him leave through the back. He gave a sigh of relief, but a weight had settled on his chest nonetheless as he thought about Fury yelling at him again, and again. 

By the time he was on his way home the sun had started to set. He replayed the day over in his head, thinking whether he made the right call or not. Part of him believed he did, but somewhere deep down he felt an uncertainty that he knew wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks had passed with no word from Fury or Natasha. Clint had called in to ask about their lead on The Winter Soldier, but Fury made it clear that he’d call once they found something. He tried getting a hold of Natasha, but that was a lost cause as well. Being kept in the black about things was something Clint had gotten used to, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.  
  
For three weeks he had nothing to do but wallow around in his pyjamas wonder where and if the Winter Soldier was. And it didn’t help that he _still_ didn’t know if he made the right call with letting him go. He had replayed that day over in his head for the past three weeks, trying to see it from a different angle. Some days he regretted not killing him, which then made him question his morals and everything he believed in and he’d spend those days calling Fury, trying to convince him to let him come in, but he’d always get the same answer.  
  
“I’ll call you if we get any information on him, Barton. Just lay low for a while.” He’d say and Clint would hang up feeling more left out than before.

It was almost three in the afternoon, and Clint lay shirtless on the couch, Lucky curled up on the floor beside where his arm hung off the couch. Clint shoved his face into his pillow and groaned. Lucky lifted his head and licked at the tips of Clint’s fingers until he got up.

He dragged himself to the kitchen with Lucky at his feet, and started the coffee machine. As it started up, he stared at the calendar pinned to his fridge. Natasha had gotten it for him a few years back, thinking it would help him keep up with dates and time. His eyes scanned the year and month; it was still on January 2010. Clint scoffed and ran a hand over his face. He couldn’t seem to get enough sleep.

As he poured his coffee the phone rang and he almost jumped out of his skin. Coffee spilled over the rim of the mug and onto his hands, and he wiped them on his boxers as he picked up the phone.  
  
“Hello?” he said, not even trying to cover up the tired in his voice. He just wanted to drink his coffee.

“Is this Mark?” said a female voice on the other end. He inhaled sharply.  
  
“No—no, sorry. No Mark here,” he said irritated and coming off harsher than he intended too.  
  
“Oh…right. My bad,” she said and hung up.

Clint sighed and turned on his heal, when the phone rang, again.  
  
“Hel-lo?” He said, stressing each syllable.  
  
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” Natasha said.

“Where the fuck have you been?” He hissed into the receiver.

“Easy, I’m in Washington, had to pick someone up.”

Clint rested his forehead against the wall and sighed.

“What?”  
  
“I’m bringing Rogers in on your mission.”  
  
“Rogers—you mean—as in Steve Rogers?” He stammered.

“Look, it’s a long story.”  
  
“I’ve got time!” He beamed, mostly wanting to talk to _someone_ than hear the story.

“No—I’d rather not do this over the phone. We’ll be there by eight. And put some clothes on.”  
  
Clint looked down at his boxers and bare chest and took a quick glance around the apartment.

"How do you do that? He asked feeling slighting uncomfortable. 

“Same way I know you let _him_ go.”  
  
“Wha—“  
  
“You’re predictable,” she said.

“Lucky guess, he said. “I’ll see you in a few hours.” 

Clint hung up and turned back to the kitchen to get his coffee. Lucky weaved through his legs as he was holding his coffee and it spilled down his front. Lucky scurried out of way as Clint cried out in pain. That was the last time he’d make coffee shirtless.

* * *

Natasha hung up, turned on her heal and walked back to Steve who was looking up at group of mannequins. The one in front of him, the middle of the bunch, wore a uniform of red, blue, a white star on its chest, and at its feet, a shield to match. Steve glanced at the mannequin to its left and clenched his jaw. The mannequin wore blue uniform and brown pants, and Steve dropped his gaze.

“So, is it—”  
  
Natasha nodded.  
  
“Yeah.”

On the way back to the car they were both quiet, which Steve found odd. He understood why he was quiet, but why was Natasha so distant? In the car she clutched the steering wheel so tight it turned her knuckles white. Steve suggested he should drive, since she looked uneasy, but she insisted she was fine as she jammed the key into its slot and turned it. Steve sighed and sat back as she sped towards to highway. 

* * *

Clint lay asleep on the couch, again. He had decided to lie down after he cleaned the coffee off himself and the floor, and he told himself he wouldn’t fall asleep, but that happened every morning. His right arm was shoved under his pillow, his left arm hung off the edge, and Lucky sat curled at his feet, his eyes open and ears perked up. The clock on the microwave flashed 8:00 and two knocks came from the front door. Lucky’s head perked up and he looked over the back of the couch. Two more knocks sounded and he stood up and walked on top of Clint, trying to wake him up.

“Clint open up, it’s us,” Natasha called from the front door, but Clint couldn’t hear her.  
  
Lucky whined and licked Clint’s face until he finally got up. He carefully shoved Lucky aside and faintly heard the knocks coming from the door. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for his hearing aids off the kitchen table and stuck them in as he opened the front door.  
  
“Sorry, guys. I was asleep and I took out my—why are you staring at me?” He asked as Natasha and Steve gawked at him. He looked down at himself, saw that he was almost, if not, completely naked, and briefly turned a shade of red. Natasha turned away and Steve followed suit.  
  
“I told you to put some clothes on,” she said, walking towards the couch and sitting down; Steve sat beside her. Clint went into the other room and came back a few minutes later in a baggy white t-shirt, and sat in the armchair beside them. 

Lucky jumped up onto the couch and sniffed at Steve’s arm until he petted him.  
  
“Didn’t know you had a dog, Clint,” he said. 

“Yeah—so, about this threat,” —he raised his arms to use air quotes— “what do _you_ know about him?” He asked looking at Steve.  
  
“It’s…” he hesitated.  
  
“A long story?” Clint sighed. “Yeah, I got that. Look you guys gotta fill me in on this guy. I’m not going to kill him if he’s innocent.”  
  
“He’s killed people, Clint,” Natasha said, softly. “Innocent people.”  
  
“So he’s still a threat, I can kill him?” Clint asked almost relieved, but then his gut twisted as he remembered letting him go and he dropped his gaze.  
  
“He’s not a threat,” Steve said.  
  
“Steve, he’s killed —“  
  
“I know, but it wasn’t at his own free will. You know that. Hydra brainwashed him, he probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing half the time,” Steve said in defence and Clint’s brows knitted together.  
  
“I spoke to him,” he said, and they both turned to him. “It was brief, but he didn’t know his name. He seemed pretty out of it.”  
  
“His name’s James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve started. “We were friends back before I even joined the army. Anyway, we enlisted, got in. During the war Hydra had taken him, experimented on him—I don’t know what they did, but after I found him…” he paused and Clint leaned closer hoping he’d go on.  
  
“They were being chased by Hydra soldiers on a train, on a mountain, and James fell off,” Natasha continued for him and Steve stared blankly at the floor.  
  
“I thought he died,” Steve muttered to himself, but the others heard.  
  
“How did he survive?” Clint asked cautiously.  
  
“We think they tried to replicate the super soldier serum, and maybe it worked,” Natasha said.  
  
Clint nodded and felt a weight lift off him.  
  
“So I don’t have to kill him? I’m off the hook?” He asked, knowing the answering already, but his relief was brief as he saw the shocked expression on Natasha’s face.  
  
“What—no, you still have to take him out,” she said.  
  
“What?” Steve and Clint said at the same time.  
  
“You can’t go against Fury’s orders. Not again.”  
  
“But—“  
  
“Your job is to follow his orders, and his orders are to take out the threat,” She stressed and Clint dropped his gaze and looked at Steve. 

Something in the way Steve stared blankly at the floor, made Clint’s chest tighten. Wiping out threats, was something Clint had mastered over the years with Shield, but wiping out someone’s best friend wasn’t what he signed up for. No matter what Fury wanted, he wasn’t going to allow himself to feel that guilt, and have that blood on his hands.

Over the next hour, Clint told them about his encounter with James, leaving out the fact that he was injured when he found him, and telling them that he left through the back after agent Hill cleared everyone out. By nine thirty they had stopped talking and sat quietly in the apartment, with nothing but the steady hum of the air condition, which didn’t seem to help Clint cool down. By ten, Steve and Natasha decided it was best if they left, and Clint showed them to the door.  
  
“Thanks for coming,” he said to Steve who was leaving first.  
  
“I’ll be in town for the next few weeks,” Steve started, “if you ever need … anything—“  
  
“I’ll make sure to call you,” Clint said, forcing a smile.  
  
“Don’t do something stupid,” Natasha said to Clint, holding the door open with one hand as Steve walked into the hallway.  
  
“I’m not going to do anything st—“  
  
“If you don’t kill him I will,” she said coldly and followed Steve down the hall.  
  
Clint shut the door and groaned. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with, now he had to worry about Natasha on his tail. And he knew she would be just around the corner if he didn’t kill James, so there was no way out of it.

His head felt the size and weight of a bowling ball, and he lay down to sleep through it. His dreams were scattered and jagged, starting somewhere and ending miles away, until finally settling on one reoccurring theme. He watched himself enter the same building he had found James in, except this time instead of loitering and stalling he burst through the door and shot an arrow right through him. The dream started over again, this time when he reached the top landing, Steve was standing there trying to pull him away, but Clint was stone cold. He didn’t hesitate. It was his job, and he was supposed to follow his orders. After he killed James that time, he heard Steve’s stifle sobs behind him and he wheeled around, almost as if he snapped out of a daze, and was about to call out for him, but Steve wasn’t there. Instead, Natasha stood in his place holding out a gun to him. He stood up, dropping his bow at his feet and raising his arms up.  
  
_“Natasha, what are you—“_  
  
_“I told you I’d kill him if you didn’t. Now, move out of the way,”_ she said.  
  
Clint shook his head. He glanced over at James who he remembered shooting, but he quickly saw that the arrow he thought he shot laid at his feet with his bow. Confused, and more than anything, scared, he took a step forward to Natasha, and before he could get a word out two loud gun shots exploded in his ears and he sat bolt up right on the couch.  
  
The morning sunlight streamed in through the window. The T-shirt he fell asleep in was stuck to his chest in cold sweat and he pulled it off his back and tossed it to the side. He rubbed his eyes with his palms and yawned. The weight of last night still lingered on his shoulders and he found it hard to get off the couch.

The buzz from the coffee machine wasn’t enough to drown out his thoughts of, not only last night, but of the memory of his dreams. The phone rang just as he was about to pour his coffee, and he sighed, placing the pot back on the counter and went to answer the phone.

“Yeah?”  
  
“Wasn’t expecting you to be up, but it’s a good thing you are. I need you to come in today,” Fury said loudly, and Clint cringed.  
  
“I’ll be there,” he said and hung up.

He quickly got dressed and chugged his coffee, which went down scolding hot, burning his throat and he shuddered. He picked up his quiver after double-checking all his arrows, swung it over his shoulder and walked out the door. This phone call could only mean one thing, and he wasn’t sure he could handle that, today of all days.  



	4. Chapter 4

“Found this on the traffic cam across you apartment,” Fury said.  
  
Clint’s brows pushed together and he said, “There’s a traffic cam across my apartment?”  
  
Fury glanced up at him then back at the monitor.  
  
“We had one installed when you joined,” he said, turning the monitor around for him to see, and he caught the offence in Clint’s expression. “We like to keep an eye on our agents, Barton.”  
  
Clint leaned forward to get a better look at the monitor. The timestamp showed that the video was captured at night, and the quality was scarcely sharp. Fury played the footage and Clint straightened up at the sight of a silhouette of a man standing just across his apartment, the streetlights casting his shadow on the sidewalk. The timestamp went from 7:00PM to just before 8:00PM. A car pulled up to the man’s right and parked on the street, its headlights casting over him, showing his face as he turned to walk up the street, and Clint felt the blood drain from his body as he clearly made out who it had been; James. The video cut out and started over, and Fury turned the screen back to him. 

“We have reason to believe that he’s been trying to track you down since your last encounter,” Fury said sharply, and Clint’s mouth went dry. How could he know about that. 

“There was no one in that building. I checked it up and down, twice,” Clint said.  
  
“What I meant, was that he could be keeping an eye on you. He knows your out for him, he’ll be trying to take you out first,” he said and Clint sighed.

“Alright, so I’ll just be _extra_ careful,” he said.  
  
“I was going to suggest increasing security around your apartment. Cover the area.”  
  
“Why?” He asked, almost offended.  
  
“Look, Clint, I know you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself but—“  
  
“Then let me take care of myself! I can do it, but you wouldn’t know that because—because you’re always on my ass with extra security, and calling me in only when I’m _needed_ ,” Clint started to ramble more than he wanted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to stop. “You tell me I’m your best archer, best shot—whatever, but you haven’t given me a chance here.” He paused to swallow then continued. “I know I missed him last time, and I’d be lying to you if I said it didn’t keep me up at night, but I won’t miss again, I — I _can’t_ miss again.” 

Fury eyed him carefully and Clint avoided his stare. Everything he had just said was sinking in now, and he awaited the blow he was sure to get, when a knock interrupted them. Fury glanced at the door and sighed.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
Maria Hill walked in with a file in her hands that she quickly held behind her back as soon as she saw Clint sitting in the chair.  
  
“Sorry, sir, I thought you were alone,” she said.  
  
“I’ll see you in the hall, agent Hill,” he said, pushed his chair out, got up, and walked past Clint. “Don’t touch anything, Barton.”  
  
The door shut behind Fury as he left the office with Maria. Clint quickly rounded the desk and sat in Fury’s chair. He kept one eye on the door as he felt his heart drumming in his ears. The screen came to life as he moved the mouse and he looked through the files until he found one labelled “The Winter Soldier” and clicked on it. As he skimmed the file, he quickly noticed, that other than ‘The Winter Soldier’ printed neatly at the top of the page, there was no other name. He heard Fury’s voice coming closer to the door and he quickly closed the file and rounded back to his seat. The door behind him clicked open and he exhaled sharply, his heart still thumbing a rhythm in his chest. 

“So, where were we?” Fury asked, sitting down and Clint shifted in his chair.  
  
“I was about to leave,” he said, picking up his quiver that was strung on the back of his chair.  
  
“Sit down,” Fury bellowed, and Clint sunk back in his seat. “I’ll call Natasha to come get you.” Clint rolled his eyes.  
  
“Are you kidding me?”  
  
“Is that a problem?”  
  
Clint sighed. “No, _sir,”_ he said, and Fury started dialling.

* * *

Natasha pulled Clint down the street by his arm and he yanked it away from her. 

“I don’t know why I need an escort all of a sudden, I mean, how old does he think I am!” He snapped, and Natasha sighed in annoyance. “And I don’t see why he thinks James is going to kill me, he’s not a bad guy!”  
  
Natasha scoffed.  
  
“For all you know, he could be playing you. You don’t know him, Clint,” she said as they turned a corner and Clint caught up to her.  
  
“Oh, and what, you do?” He asked, and she turned around.    
  
“What?”  
  
“Do you know him?” He asked, smirking at her, his arms folded over his chest.

“How could I know him?” She asked and Clint shrugged, looking smug.

“Oh, I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”  
  
Natasha’s eyes wandered off of Clint’s face as she stared blankly at his shoulder. Clint didn’t say anything. He waited for her to own up to knowing _something_ about him and not telling him before hand. A sudden wave of anger boiled up inside him as he thought about this being a possibility. If she really did know James, why didn’t she tell him earlier? And why would she want to kill him so badly? Was she right about James playing him? Clint shook his head, trying to clear away all the questions that bombarded him.  
  
“I don’t—I don’t know him,” she said, bowing her head, looking at the pavement. Clint sighed. He wanted to believe her but something in his gut wouldn’t let him.

“His name wasn’t on the file,” he finally said, and Natasha looked up at him with furrowed brows.  
  
“What?”  
  
Clint rolled his eyes. “Natasha,” he muttered softly, “don’t do this. Just tell me the truth. Please?”

She sighed and shook her head.  
  
“I don’t know him, Clint. I don’t.”  
  
“But Natasha—“  
  
“You can walk the rest of the way on your own,” she said and pushed past him.  
  
Clint turned on his heal and called after her, but she kept walking without turning back, her red hair swished side to side as she went.  
  
It was more than obvious to him that she knew him, but it was less than obvious why she found the need to hide it from him, of all people. Clint thought he was the one person she could trust. Again, angered built up inside him and he sped down the sidewalk and down an alley. He took to the rooftops and made his way home. It was a cloudless day, the sun was shinning down on the city and Clint, feeling the opposite, wanted nothing more than to take his gear off and lay on the couch, with his blinds drawn, and his phone unplugged.  
  
When he got home he barely had enough time to take his shoes off when the phone rang, sounding louder than ever. Clint groaned, aggravated, and answered it.  
  
“Yeah?” He said sharply.  
  
“Gun shots were fired at Central Park. Get down there as soon as possible,” Fury’s voice boomed through the receiver.  
  
“Can’t the cops handle that?” Clint said, tired and annoyed.  
  
“The Winter Soldier was spotted _right_ before shots were fired,” Fury said.  
  
Clint felt his gut twist. Why did he have to join Shield? Why couldn’t he just stick to being in the circus? He silently wished he didn’t come face to face with James down there, in front of everyone. His nightmare was slowly becoming a reality and he knew he wasn’t ready to face it.  
  
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” he said and hung up.

* * *

Clint fumed as he arrived at the scene. There were Shield agents everywhere, and a couple cop cars had shown up. He saw the cops trying to keep bystanders at bay and failing miserably at it. A little girl ran out underneath the cop’s arms, and headed straight for…him. The cop turned to catch her, but failed, again, and a couple of people shouted after her, but she ignored them. Feeling reluctant he tried pretending he didn’t see her, but that was almost impossible when she finally caught up to him and started tugging at his bow. He frowned, not in the mood for anyone, especially kids, but he sighed and knelt down.  
  
“Hey, you shouldn’t be here,” he said softly.  
  
“Are you Hawkeye?” She asked, star struck. Clint chuckled.  
  
“Yeah…Yeah, I am, but kid—“  
  
“I’m sorry,” a female voice came from a distance, and Clint looked up to see a young lady, her hair up in a tight ponytail, jogging towards them. “Katie, what did I tell you about running off?” She grabbed her daughter’s hand and looked at Clint.

“It’s okay,” he said, standing up. “This happens all the time,” he said, nervously, hoping she couldn’t see right through his lie. This never happened to him. He wasn’t Captain America or Thor. He was just some guy with a bow and arrow, who, apparently, sucked at his job. The lady smiled and turned away, pulling her kid with her. Clint sighed and turned towards the agents scattered through out the park. The communicator in his ear gave a sharp, high-pitched noise and he cringed and pulled it out.  
  
“Is Fury trying to deafen me completely?” He muttered and stuck the communicator back in. Fury’s voice spoke as soon as the noise faded.  
  
_“He’s not there, Barton. He’s made a run for it.”_  
  
“I’m getting real tired of showing up to nothing,” Clint said, but he was relieved to know he didn’t have to kill the kid in front of everyone in New York. “Where’d he go?”  
  
_“My apologies for not having a tracker on him,”_ Fury said, and Clint scoffed. _“Witnesses say they spotted him heading towards the subway.”_  
  
Clint groaned. “If you’re suggesting I go look for him—“  
  
_“I was about to, but he’s heading back towards Brooklyn,”_ Fury said.  
  
“What—how do you know?”  
  
_“I’ve pulled up all surveillance on the underground. Saw him board the train.”_  
  
“Where do you think he’s going—why would he go _back_ to Brooklyn?” Clint stammered, heading towards the subway. Fury stilled.  
  
_“Keep your eyes open, Barton. Remember what I told you,”_ he finally said after Clint boarded a train. _“He could be out for you.”_  
  
“Right. But why was he in Manhattan? Why wouldn’t he just come for me when I’m asleep?” He asked, genuinely confused now. It didn’t make sense. “Unless—“  
  
_“Doesn’t matter. You’re to kill him once you see him,”_ Fury said.  
  
In all the chaos, Clint almost forgot he was talking to Fury. He had so many questions, not only about James, but about Natasha, too. The only one, who seemed to be completely honest with him so far, was Steve. He thought about calling him, but the thought soon passed as Fury’s booming voice pierced his ear.  
  
_“Did you hear me, Barton?”_  
  
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll get it done,” he said, and pulled the communicator out for the rest of the ride.  

* * *

The door opened with a squeak as he stepped into his apartment. He dropped his quiver of arrows beside the door and kicked his shoes off. They tumbled beside the quiver, knocking it over and spilling his arrows across the floor. Clint groaned in annoyance and kicked them over; he’d deal with it later.

He walked to the kitchen, placed his communicator on the counter, and grabbed a cup out of the cupboard. He tried starting the coffee machine twice, but it wouldn’t turn on. He let out a short hiss through his teeth and resorted to the microwave. As he leaned his back against the counter, he looked around his apartment. The blinds were drawn…had they been drawn when he left? The microwave beeped and he took his cup out, sipping it carefully. As his back was turned he faintly heard rummaging, and thought Lucky was sniffing at his arrows.  
  
“Lucky, don’t touch tho—“ He started, but stopped after he turned around.

The rummaging he had heard wasn’t Lucky at all. Standing in front of him, just beside the couch, was James. His left arm—the metal glistened—clutched his hip, where blood spilled through his fingers and onto the floor. He gave Clint a faint smile. Clint stood, mouth agape, a million questions running through his head, but only one reaching his lips.  
  
“How did you get in?”  
  
James shrugged, winced, and said. “Let myself in. Didn’t…think you’d mind.” And with that, he fell over onto the couch.  
  
Clint breathed in deeply and exhaled. He set his cup down on the counter and looked around, aimlessly, then settled on James.  
  
“This…” He said aloud, and Lucky trotted over to him. Clint looked down at him as he finished his thought, “…is bad.”


	5. Chapter 5

Clint had a wanted assassin passed out on his couch, his blood staining the floor. What could possibly go wrong? Quick on his feet, he trudged over to James' side, knelt down and moved his hand away from the wound on his hip. Blood stained the metal hand and Clint let it fall off the side of the couch. He glanced over James' shirt, blood had stained it drastically. Clint was surprised he wasn't dead yet, with the amount of blood he'd lost by now. He got to his feet, searched his place for gauze, ace bandages, and anything else he thought he'd need. He sunk down to his knees and carelessly dropped everything in front of him. Part of him didn't understand why he was trying to save him. His mission had been simply to kill him, and letting him die here would fulfill those orders. Clint sighed and shook his head. Part of him also knew he couldn't let him die here, Steve would never forgive him. Clint watched James' chest rise and fall. And he'd never forgive himself. He pushed his thoughts to the side and moved quickly but carefully. 

Rolling up James' shirt to uncover the wound, he started cleaning it up. James lay still and conscious, Clint kept an eye on his breathing as he worked, taking a break every so often to check on him. He brought over a glass of water and a bottle of alcohol and set them down on the table behind him as he finished cleaning him up. He wrapped his hand around James' hip, looking to see if there was an exit wound. He gritted his teeth and inhaled sharply. 

"Damn it," he muttered and glanced up at James. "This is gonna hurt." 

Clint hesitated. If someone had told him this morning that he'd be contemplating whether or not to dig a bullet out of some guys hip, he wouldn't believe them. But here he was about to do exactly that. 

"Okay, let's hope you sleep through this, James," he said and dug his fingers into the wound. 

James didn't move for a second, but just as Clint started moving his fingers around, looking for the bullet, James sat up groaning. Clint cringed and pushed himself to hurry up, he couldn't stand hearing someone in pain. 

"I'm almost there, James!" Clint said, feeling the bullet at the tip of his fingers. "Just about —" he got a grip on it and dug it out. It popped out of James' hip and rolled off his stomach and to the floor. James' cries softened and he lay down, breathing heavily. Clint sat back against the table and wiped his hand off with a rag. He grabbed the bottle of alcohol and poured it over the wound. James winced. 

"You enjoy inflicting pain on people or something, archer?" James asked, his voice gruff. Clint set the bottle down beside the couch, picked up the ace bands and passed it over and under James' midsection. James winced whenever Clint passed over the injury. He finished and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm and leaned back against the table. 

"Is that the thanks I get for saving your life, James? I could've let you bleed to death, you know," he said, sarcastically. 

James' brows shot up at the mention of his name. 

"What did you call me?" 

Clint sighed. He was so tired. 

"I called you James. It's your name, amnesia boy," he said. "Ring any bells?" 

James shrugged. "Not really. Feels familiar though." 

"Your full name is James Buchanan Barnes, that help at all?" 

James nodded then shook his head. Clint sighed and hung his head forward. 

"This is hopeless," he muttered to himself. 

James shifted on the couch, trying to sit up. "Sorry for getting you into this," he breathed. 

Clint nodded. "Yeah, I'm risking a lot for this. You should be sorry," he said, then smiled. 

James scoffed and pushed himself so his back was up against the arm of the couch and his legs were stretched out in front of him. He sighed and looked down at the blood stained bandage covering his midsection then glanced at Clint who looked exhausted. His hands, even though he had cleaned them off, he could still make out some blood stuck between the cracks of his hand. He frowned. 

"Better clean all this blood up, then," he said. 

Clint looked around and groaned. He thought about calling Steve, he was the only one who wouldn't hurt James. But then thought against it, for now. His main priority was to get James back on his feet, which he was sure wouldn't take too long, having the some kind of super-soldier serum in him, he'd probably heal in no time. And he'd rather not have Steve see his best friend close to death for the first time in seventy years. 

"I'll clean this up," he said and stood up. "You…uh, want anything to drink, eat—you do that stuff, right?" He joked. 

James cracked a smile and nodded. "You know I'm not an alien, right?" 

"Right, just hopped up on super-soldier serum," Clint said and James nodded, smiling, but Clint caught a sadness in his expression and he cleared his throat. "I'll get you some water." 

"Here," Clint came back with a plate in his left hand and a glass of water in his right. James gave a little nod as a thank you as Clint set them down on the table in front of him. 

James leaned forward to pick up his plate, winced and leaned back against the couch with a sigh. Clint was standing with his back turned to him. He was picking up everything he'd brought to patch James up, he hadn't realised James' struggle. James leaned forward again, held his hand over his hip, and pushed through the pain that coursed out of his hip and through his body. He bit his tongue as the tip of his fingers touched the glass, the pain was almost unbearable. He knew he could ask Clint to help him, but he felt like he had done enough already, he didn't want to burden him. He pushed himself to lean forward a bit more, his hand pushed the glass, tipping it over, he tried to catch it before it smashed on the floor but he was too slow. Clint spun around to see him bent forward and the glass in pieces in a pool of water on the floor. Their eyes met and Clint gave him a what-are-you-doing look and James sat up and gestured to the broken glass. 

"Sorry." 

Clint knelt down and picked up the glass, putting the broken pieces he could find into the glass, and stood up. 

"Why didn't you ask for help?" Clint asked in a tone of confusion. 

"Didn't wanna bother you. You've done enough already," he said. 

Clint's brows shot up. He traced a finger over the broken glass before setting it down on the table, and sat down beside James. 

"If I didn't want you to bother me I would've killed you a month ago," Clint said. James grinned. 

"I still don't understand why you didn't take me out," he asked, picking at the bandages around his waist. "It's not like you know me—oh my god, you know me, don't you?"

Clint hesitated. 

"I know of you, sorta—this guy I know knows you and I promised him I'd keep an eye on you," he said. 

James nodded. "So, if it wasn't for this guy you would've killed me?" 

Clint shook his head. "No…maybe—I don't know. Whats with the twenty questions?" 

"Sorry," he said. They were quiet for a few minutes, then James asked, "So who's this guy?" 

Clint groaned. "You ask a lot of questions, man," he said and James punched his shoulder. 

"Stop toying with me, archer. Who is he?" 

Clint dropped his gaze and sighed. But before he could open his mouth someone knocked at the door. James shot a worried glance at Clint. 

"Coming!" Clint yelled and grabbed James by the hand, lifting him off the couch. James bit his lip to keep from making noise from the pain that exploded from his hip and Clint dragged him into his bedroom. "Just stay here," Clint said and turned to leave. 

"Wait," James called and Clint turned around. 

"Yeah?" 

"Why do you sleep on the couch if you have a bedroom?" He asked and Clint rolled his eyes. "Doesn't really make sense." 

"Yeah, well, get used to it. Now shut up and wait here." 

"Okay." 

A second knock came from the door just as Clint reached to open it. He swung the door open and behind it stood Steve in a grey zip up hoodie, washed out jeans and a snapback. Clint held his breath and tried to look at calm and casual as possible—like he'd just been woken up. He cleared his throat and put on his best tired voice. 

"Oh. Hey, Cap," he said, forcing a yawn. 

Steve eyed him for a second then shook his head recollecting his thoughts. 

"I thought I'd come by, see how things are going with…you know," he said. 

"Things are good—fine. Thanks for stopping by," he said and went to close the door but Steve held his hand out to stop him. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. 

"I think I'll stay a while," he said, took off his hat, unzipped his sweater, and threw them both onto the couch. Clint closed the door and turned around. He spotted the first aid supplies and broken glass still littering the table and floor, and he froze. 

"You don't have to, Steve, really. Things are fine. I was just gonna shower and, uh, you know—" 

"Why are the blinds closed?" Steve interjected, looking around like he was inspecting the place. 

"I wanted to take a nap, sun was bothering me," he said, keeping an eye on his bedroom door. 

"Mind if I sit?" Steve asked, gesturing to the couch. Clint sighed and shook his head. "Thanks." He took a seat and saw the broken glass on the table. He pointed at it and looked at Clint. 

"Oh, funny story. So I woke up and got myself a glass of water and Lucky knocked me over and you're not buying any of this, are you?" 

Steve shook his head. "You might be a good archer, Barton, but you're a horrible liar." 

"Yeah, alright. But don't, like, freak out," he said, walking back to the bedroom door. Steve folded his hands together and waited. 

Clint slid into the bedroom and James sat up looking startled. He glanced at the bloodstained bandages around his waist and quickly moved to the closet to his left. 

"Who's out there?" James asked. "He sounds familiar." 

"A friend." 

He rummaged through the closet, found a large purple sweater and tossed it at James. It landed over his face. He pulled it off and looked it over. 

"It's purple." 

"It's all I got that'll fit," he said. "Zip it up and come out." 

Clint closed the door behind him and Steve turned to him. As soon as he stepped away from the door James opened it and stepped out in the purple sweater and Clint cringed, because blood had already seeped through, darkening the sweater. Steve was looking at James like he'd seen a ghost, and James gawked at Steve. 

"Hey, Bucky," Steve said, softly. 

James hesitated, looked at Clint, who gave him a small nod, and James turned back to Steve. 

"Hey, Steve."


	6. Chapter 6

_Mission. Kill. Mission...no—that's not right._

_Steve._

Their eyes had met and suddenly every memory Hydra had forced Bucky to forget came flooding back in. He saw Steve and himself in the midst of war, explosions all around them and Steve up ahead, in front of every soldier, taking the lead. The memory flashed. Steve was standing in front of him, shorter than the previous memory, and they were both laughing. Another flash. This time he was staring at Steve from far away, his face and body getting smaller and farther as the memory continued, then a bone crushing pain shot up his arm, and darkness. These memories, though brief, felt hours long, each. When he finally came back to reality, he noticed both Clint and Steve were staring down at him in shock and worry, and maybe even a bit of fear. He wasn't too sure; his head felt like mush. 

"What—" his mouth was drier than ever. It felt like he had been eating nothing but sand. What a horrible taste. And when he tried to swallow it felt like the broken glass that he had previously dropped was lodged in his throat. The water was still soaking the floor.  

"Hold on, I'll get him some water," Steve said urgently. Bucky reached for him, or thought he did. He had tried to lift his arm up, but found himself leaning his whole body forward, almost falling over. Clint had gotten to his knees and held him up before he could fall. He steadied Bucky's back against the arm of the chair and sat with him. 

"Easy. Don't strain yourself, man," Clint said, then glanced down at the sweater he had had zipped all the way up. "Let's take this off, alright? Get you some air," he said and proceeded to cautiously unzip the sweater. It wasn't as hard as Clint initially thought it would be. Bucky sat in an almost vegetative state, which concerned him, to say the very least. But he didn't lash out at him, like Clint thought he would. Getting the sweater off his shoulders, Clint let the sweater hang off of Bucky's arms for now. Mostly because he didn't want to come in contact with the metal arm he was sporting. For all he knew that thing could have a mind of its own. 

Steve came back, almost in a jog, and handed Clint the glass of water as he sat down beside him. Clint dipped his index and middle finger into the glass—the water was frigid—and then he placed his fingers on Bucky's forehead, then repeated the process. Cheeks. Forehead. Neck. Eventually Bucky started to snap out of it, muttering something so softly, Steve had to point it out to him. 

"What did he say?" Clint asked, as he dried his hand on his pants. 

"I couldn't catch it, but I know he was trying to say something," Steve said, as if his life hung off whatever Bucky's words had been. Clint shrugged. 

"Maybe he'll say it again." He was just trying to give Steve some hope, if anything else. 

"Yeah." 

"Just gotta wait it out," Clint said, and placed a hand on Steve's shoulder. He wasn't that great at comforting people, but, hey, it was a start. 

Steve didn't give any hint that he heard Clint or felt his hand on his shoulder. He was very clearly lost in his own thoughts, and he looked hesitant. Clint noticed him staring at the bloody bandages around Bucky's waist, and he bit his cheek. He couldn't even imagine what was going through Steve's head. 

"Thank you," Steve said so suddenly that Clint almost missed it. Steve turned to face him. "You saved his life." 

Clint wanted to laugh, because by the looks of it Bucky was on the brink of death, but he held his tongue and nodded. 

"I told you I'd take care of him," he said. 

Steve hung his head and scoffed, covering his face with his hands. 

"I thought you were gonna kill him," he said, his voice muffled. He dropped his hands and looked at Bucky. 

Clint sat in silence, the only noise coming from Bucky whenever he'd mutter something they couldn't quite catch. Clint suddenly realised just how exhausted he was. He hadn't had time to sit down since Fury's call that morning. Always in his feet, always running. The fatigue started to take over his body and he let his eye lids slowly shut. Darkness consumed his thoughts and he let himself doze off. 

He wasn't exactly sure of how much time had passed. He had a dreamless sleep, but Steve had woken him up so suddenly, that he almost fell back. 

"What? What happened?" Clint stammered, regaining his balance and wiping drool off his mouth.

Steve grabbed his shoulder to steady him, bringing him back to reality. Clint rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand and yawned. 

"Did I miss anything? How long was I out?" He asked, turning his head trying to find a clock.

"An hour," Steve said. "He's been in and out of consciousness for the past thirty minutes." 

Clint blew excess air out of his mouth and rubbed his forehead. 

"Come on, James. Don't leave us hanging," he said. 

"How'd you find him?" Steve asked, folding his hands together. 

"He actually found me," Clint said. 

"What?" Steve asked, bewildered. 

"They should add breaking and entering to his file. Kid almost gave me a heart attack when I got home."  

Steve scoffed. "Guess he's learned a few things, huh?" 

"Hey, I'm sorry about all this, Rogers. I know it must be hard seeing him like this." 

Steve forced a chuckle. "It used to be him taking care of me, believe it or not." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. I'd get into fights, stupid ones, and Bucky would be there ready to pull me out of it." He swallowed hard, holding back as much pain as he could. He didn't want to breakdown in front of Clint, what would he think of him? He let his eyes drop to his hands in his lap as he continued. "Even when I had nothing I had Bucky." 

"He'll be okay. I'll make sure of it, Cap," Clint said. 

"You're a good friend, Barton. Normally, I'd go to Romanov with this, but…" he hesitated. 

"She can be pretty hostile," Clint said. 

"Yeah, I…I wish she'd give him a chance. He deserves that much." 

Clint parted his lips to speak, but before he could get a word out Bucky jolted awake, gasping for air like he'd been drowning this whole time and someone had finally pulled him out of the water. Both Steve and Clint's hands found their way onto him, holding him steady, and a sudden relief washed over Clint. He hadn't realise just how tight his chest had been with worry until Bucky gawked at him, like he was a stranger. Clint tried to shrug the feeling off by handing Bucky the glass of water, dropping his hands off him. 

"Drink," he said, his hands were shaking as he handed the glass over. Bucky stared at the glass reluctantly, as if it were poison. Clint sighed. "It's just water, Barnes." Bucky took the glass from him. His fingers grazed over Clint's and Clint felt his chest tighten. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze. What the _fuck_ was going on? 

Bucky raised the glass to his lips and drank it all down. He handed the glass back to Clint, who was too busy staring at the floor boards, wide eyed, lost in his own thoughts.

"Archer," Bucky said, shaking the glass in front of him. 

Clint glanced up at him in a daze and took the glass, avoiding his hand as best he could, and placed it on the table to his left. 

"Steve, you can let go of me. I'm fine," Bucky said, almost laughing. 

Steve dropped his hands slowly off of Bucky's arm, like he was a bomb that could go off at any moment. 

They all stared at each other in silence for a moment. Clint sat, awkwardly picking at his pants, while Steve sat staring at Bucky. No one said a word, not even Bucky. What could he say? He wasn't even sure what had just happened. 

"What happened to you, Buck?" Steve asked, softly. 

Bucky inhaled sharply and bit his tongue. His eyes darted from Steve to Clint, looking for some possible back up, but Clint was still in his own world. 

"You'd hate me if I told you," he lowered his voice. His hair hung over his eyes. 

"I doubt that," Steve said. Bucky sighed. 

"For a long time after Hydra took my memories, I was told that you were my mission," he paused to wet his lips. "Before that, well..." 

"There were twenty eight girls in the Red Room," he said in almost a daze and he suddenly had Clint's full attention. "I helped train them, made them into the best female assassins…" he paused again, then continued, "…the training…the training was hard. But the glory of…" he shook his head then ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back so Clint could see his face. His expression was vacant. It worried Clint more than he would admit. "The glory…no..." Bucky continued, stammering. "That's not right…" he muttered, frustrated and confused. 

"Bucky?" 

Bucky turned to Clint, ignoring Steve. 

"When we first met, you…you said a name," he stared blankly through Clint. It sent a chill down his spine and he swallowed hard. 

"My name?" Clint asked, worry dripping off his words. Bucky shut his eyes tight and shook his head. 

"No!" He snapped. "…No. A girl—someone—I know her." 

"What's he talking about, Barton?" Steve asked, almost demanded. Clint gave him a worried look and shook his head. 

"He knows her," he said, then turned back to Bucky. "He knows Natasha." 

Bucky stared right into Clint's eyes as he said her name. 

"Natasha," he muttered. "I remember her. Does she know I'm here? Can I see her?" He dropped his gaze. 

Clint and Steve shook their head at the same time. 

"That wouldn't be a good idea, Barnes," Clint said. 

"Why not? I wanna see her. You let me see Steve! What makes her any different?" He hissed, frustrated. 

"You don't know her, she's —" Clint tried.

"I don't care what she is!" He spat. 

"Will you shut up for a minute?" Clint demanded. 

"Guys!" Steve blurted. Clint folded his arms over his chest and Bucky groaned. "Look, I don't know how you know Natasha or why you wanna see her, but you can forget about it." 

"Steve—" 

"I don't wanna hear it, Buck. I'm not letting her anywhere near you, you got that?" 

"No. I don't _got that_. I'm not one of your little soldiers, Rogers. You don't get to boss me around!" 

"James," Clint spoke softly, he was surprised they stopped to listen to him. "You're a threat in her eyes, now. She'll kill you."

Bucky sighed. He was so frustrated and tired. His whole body hurt like he'd been thrown around for hours. And his head felt like someone had been digging around in there, messing everything up. He didn't know what to believe anymore, be didn't want this to be his life. Remembering was worse than forgetting. He looked at Steve who looked the same as he had over seventy years ago, but their connection was severed, and he knew they both felt it. It wasn't the same as it used to be and it might never be, again. And now Natasha… 

"I want him to leave," he muttered, gesturing at Steve, avoiding his gaze. 

Steve sat up straighter, and Bucky knew it hurt him to hear that, but he didn't care. He was tired. He didn't want to talk to him anymore, it only made things worse. 

At least with forgetting he didn't know what he had lost. But now he knew that nothing could ever be the same, ever again. 


	7. Chapter 7

"What was that?" Clint asked shocked. He never thought Bucky would want Steve to leave. Bucky shook his head.

"You shouldn't have let me talk to him," he said and Clint felt bad. He felt really bad. His heart sank and he leaned back in the couch. Okay, so he fucked up. He upset him now. 

"I didn't know that would happen, Bucky," he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue with out hesitation. He hadn't meant to call him that, he wasn't sure why he did, it just came out. 

"And don't call me that!" Bucky snapped. 

"James…" Clint started, cautiously. Bucky glanced up at him through his hair. Clint searched for his words. He had questions, but looking at him he saw just how tired he was. "Sleep in my room tonight. I'll take the couch—I'm used to it, anyway. Plus, Lucky would just wake you up if you slept here, so—" 

"What?" Bucky muttered, his rage fading. Clint didn't hear him. 

"There are pillows in the closet if you need them. I can get you some extra clothes, if you want," Clint finished. 

Bucky shook his head and looked down at his feet, his hair falling in front of his face even more. He scoffed. 

"Why are you so good to me?" He asked, then turned his head to look at him. His hair fell fell to the side, exposing his face. "You barely know me. I could be fucking with you, could kill you in your sleep. You wouldn't even know." 

Clint knew that was a possibility. But he knew that if Bucky wanted him dead be wouldve done it by now. Why wait until he was asleep to do it? It wouldn't make sense. Plus, what's his motive? Get to Steve? Get to Shield? He lacked the information. He wouldn't kill him. The most he'd do was use him, and Clint was fine with that. 

"You're not gonna kill me," Clint said, grinning. 

"Sure I will," Bucky said, sarcastically. Clint stifled a laugh. 

"Oh yeah?" 

Bucky nodded. "You think I can't? I got a plan." 

Clint shook his head, smiling. "I'd love to hear it." 

Bucky leaned back on the couch, pulled his legs up and crossed them. He was now facing Clint with his back against the arm of the couch. 

"First I get you to trust me. I warm up to you, make you pity me," he frowned excessively and Clint hit him with one of the couch pillows. Bucky raised his arms to deflect it, then continued. "Then, I get in good with you, you trust me enough that you don't even have to look over your shoulder every time you leave the room. Almost like we're friends," he paused and gauged Clint's expression. He stared at Bucky with a subtle smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

"Anyway," Bucky sighed, "after, I dunno, a month or two, I wake up in the middle of the night, make my way over to you," he said, leaning over onto his knees, pushing Clint back against the arm of the couch. "Grab a knife from the kitchen—the biggest, sharpest one of course, and," he lowered his voice, raised his left hand, placed his index finger and middle finger against the right side of Clint's throat, just under his jaw and felt his pulse. Clint swallowed at the cold metal and shifted under Bucky. "I'd slice right here. You know what that is?" He asked, feeling Clint's pulse speed up. Clint nodded. 

"Carotid artery." His throat felt dry. 

Bucky raised his brows and smirked, impressed. 

"You'd be dead within minutes." He said and dropped his hand. Clint looked up at him, flustered, mouth agape. Bucky narrowed his eyes at him. He felt a kind of tension in the air that suddenly made his face grow hot. He glanced down at Clint's mouth slacked open. He swallowed hard and quickly wet his lips and fell back into his seat. 

"Maybe…" Clint's voice came out rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Maybe I don't trust you." 

"Scared ya?" He asked. 

Clint gritted his teeth and nodded. "Something like that." 

Bucky grabbed the cushion Clint had hit him with earlier and threw it at him. Clint rolled his eyes and threw it back, Bucky caught it. 

"Maybe I won't kill you, Barton." Bucky said, laughing. 

Clint raised a brow. "Oh yeah?" 

Bucky nodded. "Yeah. You're alright." Clint smiled and Bucky caught his cheeks flush. "Plus, you saved my life a few times. I might as well keep you around."

"I bet you say that to all the boys!" Clint said sarcastically. Bucky hit him with the pillow again. 

"Shut up," he chuckled. 

"Alright, sorry," Clint said, happily, then quickly added. "So what happened when you saw Steve?—I don't mean to pry, I'm just curious." 

Bucky pursed his lips and sighed. 

"Before he showed up, when you told me you promised some guy…I kept getting fuzzy images of him. I couldn't see his face, no features or anything. That's why I asked who you were talking about. I thought maybe his name would bring something back." He paused. "It was like I knew him but I didn't. You know what I mean? Anyway, I guess when I saw him it brought everything back, and at once, too. Probably why it fucked me up." 

"Man, I'm sorry. I should've told you," Clint said softly. 

Bucky shrugged. "You didn't know." 

"Would it happen again? If you meet someone else, I mean," Clint asked thinking about Natasha. 

"I guess, if I had some history with them, if we were close." 

Clint sighed. "You wanted to see Natasha, right?" 

"Not if she's gonna kill me on sight. Forget about it," he said. 

"Do you remember anything else that happened with her?" Clint asked, speaking each word like he were walking over landmines. 

"I…I just feel like we were close. But it was different—I don't know." He shook his head and Clint decided to stop badgering him. 

"Okay, we can talk about it another time," he said and placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Don't push yourself to remember." Bucky nodded and looked up at him, a subtle smile stretched across his face. Clint's brows furrowed. 

"You're too good to me, Barton." 

"I'm just trying to be a friend," Clint said. "Think you could use one after everything."

Bucky nodded and something squeezed at his chest as he spoke again. 

"Right, a friend." 

Clint thought about Bucky hovering over him, his fingers on his throat. He knew that whatever he felt then wasn't something you felt for a friend, and certainly not how he ever felt for a guy, before. It caught him off guard, he felt so blind sided, and he had no one to talk to it about. So he swallowed his feelings and hoped they disappeared. 

That night he found a pair of PJs for Bucky and left them on the bed for him. Bucky had said goodnight first, which made Clint want to throw another pillow at him, but he held himself back. 

By three in the morning Clint was still awake on the couch, for once realising just how uncomfortable it really was. Part of him wanted to go into his room and ask Bucky to move over so they could share the bed, it was big enough for two people. But Clint was afraid they'd wake up tangled in each other and his breath caught in his throat. He exhaled. 

"Just a friend," he whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

The past week had gone by a lot slower than Clint thought it would. It was hard enough sharing an apartment with Bucky, but sharing a bathroom, clothes, food. It all started to make him feel very uneasy. They weren't _living_ together, he was just his guest, Clint tried to remind himself almost every second of everyday.

The first day Clint had walked in on Bucky changing. And it would've been fine if he was just putting on a shirt, maybe even a sweater over another shirt, but to Clint's luck he was practically in the nude. Clint saw enough to gasp slightly and draw attention to himself. Bucky had seen him standing in the doorway like a deer caught in headlights. He was pulling up his pants, leaving the front unbuttoned and unzipped as he spoke.

"You ever learn how to knock?" Bucky asked, grabbing a shirt out of the closet.

Clint had stood in the doorway, for God knows how long before his brain started to work again.

"Sorry, I wasn't — I was going to wake you up," he had said, that tightness back in his chest. It squeezed every time he glanced over Bucky's shirtless body. His heart pounded in his chest.

Bucky threw the shirt over his head and pulled it down by the hem. It was tighter than the other shirt Clint had given him, but it would do. He glanced up at Clint, who stood slack jawed in the door way, and he snapped his fingers in front of him.

"Barton? You're practically drooling. Close your mouth," he had said, done up his pants and pushed passed him out the door. "Any work today?" He asked from the living room.

That's how the mornings had gone, now. Like clock work Bucky would ask him about work every morning and Clint would sigh, shake his head, and give him the same answer.

"Not since you got here," he'd say.

Some days were different than others, though. One day Bucky hadn't been himself. He'd been acting distant, out of it. It bothered Clint, worried him, but more than anything, scared him. He knew not to poke at an angry bear, unless you wanted your guts handed to you. Bucky was the same way, although, he wasn't angry, but Clint knew he'd lash out at him either way. 

He did try once or twice to get something out of him. In the morning when Bucky hadn't asked about work, Clint stir the cereal in his bowl and shifted in his seat.

"Still haven't heard from Fury," he said. Bucky had just shrugged and moved to the couch. Clint followed him, sitting next to him.

Bucky sulked, he stared into the distance at nothing in particular. He almost looked like an empty shell. Someone that used to be Bucky and now was just hollow. Clint wanted to shake him. He didn't, though.

"Is…is everything alright?" Clint asked.

Bucky shrugged, eyes fixed in a daze.

"You wanna talk about it?" And Clint hoped he would, he wanted to be someone Bucky could trust. A friend.

Bucky just shrugged again and got up to walk aimlessly around the apartment.

The rest of the day had been quiet, with tension in the air. Clint hated the quiet, it was almost deafening, and that meant something to him.

It wasn't until that night, when he went to say goodnight to him, that he found him on the edge of the bed, keeled over holding his hands over his ears and … crying? Clint tried to walk out before he was noticed, but Bucky had already seen him come in.

"Why can't I remember?" Bucky asked, in a quiet, almost child like voice. It sent a chill up Clint's back and tore at his heart.

"What can't you remember?" He asked, closing the door behind him. Bucky scoffed.

"Almost everything. It's all—its cloudy, again. Names are jumbled with the wrong faces. I don't wanna forget again, Clint." He said, trying to hold back tears.

Clint frowned and hesitated to place a hand on his back.

"You'll get better. It'll take some time and…and you can stay here as long as you need," he said, knowing how hard that would be, but he didn't care. He wanted Bucky to be safe. He couldn't risk him getting into the hands of Hydra.

Bucky nodded and leaned against Clint's shoulder. His head fell to rest against him and Clint felt his chest flutter. His breathing faltered. 

After that night Bucky hadn't had another episode, which was nice, but they also didn't speak about it…which wasn't as nice. Clint wanted to bring it up, maybe ask 'was that a platonic moment or…' but he didn't want to make things awkward so he held his tongue.

The rest of the week had been the same as usual. They'd fight over the remote, which would start off as innocent as it could, but would escalate to one or both of them tossing big-sometimes sharp-objects at each other, until one of them gave it up. Clint hardly ever won.

The week had passed and Clint still had no word from Fury. He lay awake on the couch. Lucky paced around the living room, his collar chiming as he went. He heard the bed in his room creak to life as Bucky got off it. A few minutes later he opened the door, yawning and stretching.

"What's for breakfast?" He asked, sleepily.

Clint groaned and threw the covers over his head. Clock work. 

"Still sleeping," he said from under the covers.

Bucky rolled his eyes and walked over to the kitchen. He opened the fridge, bent over to look inside and frowned. It was empty other than half a carton of milk and two slices of toast. He sighed and closed the fridge.

"We have a problem," Bucky called and Clint groaned from the couch.

"Can it be solved in less than five minutes?" Clint asked and threw the covers off his face.

"Uh, that depends," Bucky said, rubbing the back of his neck and turning towards him. Clint sat up and looked over at him.

"On what?" He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

"How far is the grocery store?"

Clint leaned back against the couch.

"I can't leave you alone," he said. "And I can't bring you with me."

Bucky frowned, a bit hurt, but he understood.

"Pizza?" He asked. "I'll order. Where's the phone?"

Clint pointed at the phone mounted on the wall by the front door. He was still so tired, he didn't even know what time it was. He leaned over to get a look at the clock on the kitchen. 8:00 AM, the clock on the stove flashed. He groaned and closed his eyes.

"Wake me up when the pizza's here," he said.

Bucky made his way to the phone and just as he was about to pick it up it started to ring. He jumped back, startled and spun around at Clint, who was practically tripping over his own two feet to get to the phone. He picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" Clint said and turned to Bucky as he spoke.

"Barton, I have some information on The Winter Solider case that I wanna run by you," Fury said.

Clint blinked one eye shut and scrunched his face up, as if someone just told him to solve the world's hardest math problem.

"Alright, talk to me," he sighed, hoping he didn't have to go in.

"Can't do this over the phone. Thought I'd drop by, instead," Fury said. Clint's eyes darted at Bucky and he hesitated.

 _What?_ Bucky mouthed. Clint just shook his head and waved his hand at him to be quiet. 

"Yeah, alright. When will you be here?"

Bucky's eyes widened and he hit Clint's shoulder with his metal hand.

" _Ow!_ " He muttered, then raised a hand over his mouth and glared at Bucky, who had his arms up in defence.

"I'll be there in twenty—what was that?" Fury asked, suspiciously.

"My dog, sorry. I'll see you in twenty, then. Thanks," he hung up, before Fury could ask him anymore questions, and turned to Bucky.

"You need to hide." Clint said in haste, and spun around in place, scanning the living room. Lucky sat on the couch curled up. "And Lucky's gonna hide with you."

Bucky watched as Clint ran around the apartment like a chicken with his head cut off. He grabbed Lucky first and hauled him into the bedroom, shutting the door. Then, he started cleaning the coffee table; plates had pilled up over the week. Soon the place looked almost good as new. The couch still had a blanket and pillows over it, but Clint didn't care. He grabbed Bucky by the arm—non-metal—and dragged him to the bedroom.

"Buy me dinner first, Archer," Bucky joked.

If Clint wasn't in such a rush he would've processed what Bucky had said better, but he moved past it as quickly as he could. He didn't have time to dwell on everything Bucky. No matter how much he wanted too.

"Not funny, Buck—James. If Fury finds out you're here, he'll kill the both of us," he said, pushing him into the room.

"Don't forget to tell him about how much you—"

Bucky's sentence got cut off by the knock at the door, then by Clint shoving him into the room and closing the door before he could get another word out. He stood in the bedroom with Lucky at his feet, whining.

"Me too, boy," Bucky whispered.

Out in the living room Clint stood behind the front door. He rubbed his hands on his shirt, he couldn't stop sweating. Even though everything was in place, he feared the worst would happen. Anything could go wrong. But it was too late to turn back, Fury was just behind the door. He inhaled and exhaled, trying to calm his anxiety and pulled the door open.

Fury stepped in right away, pushing past Clint before he had a chance to say hello.

"I'm sorry I had to barge in like this," Fury said.

Clint shut the door and came to his side, quickly. His eyes darted between the couch and his bedroom door. He hoped to God Bucky wouldn't make any noise. That's the last thing he needed.

"No problem," he said then gestured to the couch. "After you."

Fury nodded in thanks and took a seat, Clint followed lead.

"I may not have been honest with you from the start of this mission," Fury started. "As you're aware I've never told you the Winter Soldier's real name, and there's a reason for that."

Clint put his hands together as he sat hunched over. Part of him was sure Bucky had his ear pressed up against the bedroom door, listening to every word, every breath. A chill ran up Clint's spine.

"So, you know who he is, then?" Clint asked, choosing his words carefully.

Fury nodded and sighed.

"Yes. I've known for a while, now—"

"Does Natasha know?" Clint blurted, not meaning to cut him off. He hadn't heard from her in a while. Was she ignoring him?

"No. No, I'm the only one with that level of clearance. Why?"

Clint shrugged. "No. No reason. So…is that all you wanted to tell me?" He asked, eager to get him out of his place.

"I'm here to tell you who he really is, and I'm hoping it won't change your mind about the mission," Fury said, sounding unsure. "If it does, I'll have to put someone…capable in place of you."

Clint frowned slightly at the statement. Like he wasn't capable. He had morals. Was that so wrong?

"I'll do my job no matter who he is," he said, and he knew it came out sounding extremely fake because Fury eyed him as soon as he said it.

"His name is James Buchanan Barnes. Sound familiar?" He asked, but before Clint could answer he continued. "I doubt it would, unless you and Steve Rogers are close friends."

Clint shook his head. "Never heard of him."

"He was close friends with Steve back in his day—before he was Captain America. They grew up together, basically brothers," he paused. "Anyway, during the war, James and Steve were going after some Hydra soldiers on a train, and one thing lead to another and James fell off."

Clint started biting the inside of his bottom lip. He hoped Bucky wasn't listening. Something like this could bring back memories he didn't want, or worse, bring back memories he didn't know were there. His heart thumped a rhythm in his chest, and he was sure his chest would give out at any moment.

"So, what happened after he fell—how did he survive?"

"Hydra had taken him earlier during the war. They did some kind of experiments on him. Some think they tried to recreate the super soldier serum, and some also think it worked," Fury said, his voice was smooth as he spoke. It was different than what Clint was used to, the angry, rough voice. "After he fell Hydra got hold of him, again. They gave him a metal arm to replace the one he lost during the fall, and they wiped his memory. Erased him completely; a blank slate."

Clint sighed. "That's horrible." And he suddenly felt it more now than he did the first time he heard the story. Bucky deserved so much more than he was given. He'd lost so much time. Clint dug his nails into the back of his hands.

"He's still out there, Barton. He's still a threat to us and to a million innocents out there. This doesn't change the orders I gave you. He's to be killed once caught, you got that?"

Clint nodded.

"I'll get it done, sir."

* * *

 

After Fury left Clint leaned back against the door. He could finally breathe. The back of his hands burned from where his nails had dug in. He looked over at the bedroom door and called out: "You can come out now, James!"

There was no reply. Again, panic rose inside of Clint and he suddenly feared the worst. Did he pass out from another memory blast? He hadn't heard anyone fall, so maybe he just fell asleep. _He was okay,_ Clint tried to reassure himself.

He went to open the door, only to find that it was locked. His brows furrowed. He didn't remember locking it? Why would Bucky lock the door? He tried knocking, trying to stay calm.

"James? You gonna let me in?" He called. Still no answer. He could faintly hear Lucky whimpering on the other side and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay calm. The door could only be unlocked from the inside.

He took a few steps back and kicked just above where the lock was. The door swung open and Clint stepped inside. He saw Bucky sitting on the bed, back against the head board, in some sort of catatonic state. It chilled his blood. He started to panic more than he thought he would and he got onto the bed in front of him.

"James?" He said, softly. But Bucky showed no sign that he knew Clint was there. Clint put a hand on either shoulder and shook him gently. "Come on, James. Snap out of it, man. You're scaring me." And his voice almost cracked at the last word. His right hand wandered to the front of Bucky's chest, he could feel his heart beating regularly under his palm, that was good…but it didn't ease Clint's worry at all. It just made him feel worse, because Bucky was still there with him, he was still alive, so why couldn't he answer him? He inhaled sharply and lowered his head. His hands found their way back to Bucky's shoulders and he squeezed them tightly.

He leaned forward, resting his head against Bucky's chest. He didn't know what to do. He wasn't trained in this kind of thing. He felt so useless and hopeless, that all he could do was cry. Silent tears streamed down his face and fell onto Bucky's shirt. He was supposed to be protecting him...and now...

Eventually he couldn't hold it back anymore and the tears flooded out of him in waves. His chest heaved as he tried to hold them back. He sat up straight, dropping his hands off Bucky's shoulders and wiped his eyes with the back of his fingers. He felt so pathetic, crying over him, he barely knew him, why did he care so much?

Ten minutes had passed since Fury had left, but it felt like hours to Clint. He sat there the entire time, studying him. He wanted to shake Bucky until he snapped out of it, he wanted to slap him. But he knew it was no use, nothing he could do would get through to him. At least nothing he knew.

"Ja—Bucky?" He tried, hoping to get a reaction, at least. "Bucky, please. Don't leave me hanging here," he let out a choked laugh. His hands found their way to either side of his face and he hesitated. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, he wasn't planning on doing anything but it happened so fast he couldn't think about it until soon after.

Just before Bucky snapped out of his daze, Clint had leaned forward and pressed their lips together. It wasn't the best kiss, but Bucky had felt the tiniest bit of something in it. He felt like he had a million butterflies trapped in his chest. He heard Clint stifle a sob and his heart sank. He let his eyes flutter shut and he parted his lips slightly, trying to ease into it. As soon as he parted his lips, Clint inhaled sharply and muttered into the kiss.

"James?" And he pulled away.

"Yeah," Bucky breathed, eyes still closed, still hanging onto the kiss. He wanted to pull him back in. He frowned slightly and let his eyes open.

Clint suddenly realised what he had done and his face burned hot.

"Sorry—you were—I thought you wouldn't come back," he said, embarrassed.

Bucky smiled. "So you kissed me?"

Clint's cheeks flushed and he buried his face into his hands.

"I wasn't thinking, it just happened. I didn't want to—"

"You didn't want to kiss me?" He asked, a bit hurt.

Clint looked up at him and shook his head.

"No! I mean, yes I did want to, but—," he said, confused and flustered. "Can we just pretend it didn't happen?"

Bucky ran a finger over his bottom lip and shuttered, still lingering on what happened. God, he just wanted to kiss him again.

"You scared of losing me?" He asked. "Because I'm not going anywhere—I can't. You won't let me," he said, which made Clint smile.

"Shut up, you could leave anytime you wanted, but no, that's not…" He hesitated as he thought about how he felt when he didn't hear Bucky answer him the first time…then the second time. He shook his head and lowered it. Bucky suddenly understood.

"God, you thought I was—"

"Don't even say it," Clint said, hysterically. "It so pathe—"

Bucky leaned forward and pressed their lips together. His lips parted and he placed a hand on the back of Clint's head and held it there, his fingers gripping tightly at his hair. Clint, tensed up at first, shocked at what happened, but seconds later he relaxed and reciprocated. His hands found the front of Bucky's shirt and pawed at it, looking for buttons that weren't there. He whined into the kiss and Bucky chuckled and pulled away, hovering over Clint's mouth. Clint leaned forward to keep going, but every time he did Bucky would pull back.

"Barton," he breathed. "Slow down."

Clint found his lips, ignoring him. His hands ran down Bucky's chest to the front of his pants and Bucky pulled away, again. He grabbed Clint's hand and intertwined it with his own, and pulled him back in. But Clint twisted his hand out of Bucky's grasp. He was so pent up after the past week. He didn't care anymore, he needed this.

"James, please," he breathed. "Please. Don't make me beg."

Bucky gritted his teeth, and pulled away.

"You need to slow down," Bucky gasped.

Clint tugged Bucky's shirt, trying to pull him back to his mouth, but Bucky pulled away and shook his head.

"Clint, think about this," he said. "Please."

Clint looked at him, his eyes were practically glazed over with lust. He wanted Bucky so badly, he felt drunk off him. How did this happen? God, he didn't care, it felt so good, he didn't care.

"Why, why do we have to think about it? Can we just do it and deal with the consequences later? Come on," he breathed and pulled down on Bucky's shirt so hard it almost ripped. "You can't just kiss me like that and leave me hanging, Buck, you can't do that to me. Please."

Bucky shook his head. He couldn't stand the begging, he wasn't going to change his mind. It's not like he didn't want it, he did, but not in these circumstances. He didn't want to take advantage of him, he was in such a vulnerable state of mind. It wouldn't be fair.

"God, Clint, you're so fucking stubborn," he scoffed and shook his head, and Clint knew he wasn't going to get his way. A lump formed in the back of his throat and he let go of Bucky's shirt. His hands sat awkwardly in his lap.

He felt like a child. He was embarrassed and felt humiliated. But he knew he was being ridiculous. He tried to steal a glance at Bucky, feeling vulnerable and pathetic. Bucky raised a brow at him, as if he were waiting for him the whole time. He gave Clint a warm smirk and shook his head, his hair fell in front of his face.

"Sorry," Clint said timidly. Bucky stated at him intensely and wet his lips. Clint sat up straighter and looked at him questionably. "Stop that."

Bucky smirked seductively and shrugged. "What? I'm not doing anything."

Clint shifted on the bed and threw his legs over the edge. Bucky chuckled and reached for him, grabbing the back of his shirt.

"Come on, babe. Don't go," he said and pouted dramatically. Clint glared at him. He knew what he was doing; mocking him.

"I said I was sorry. Can we drop it?" He asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. Bucky shook his head. Clint sighed then turned to him. He got up close to him so their faces were barely a hair apart and Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He scoffed and leaned forward. Clint leaned back, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "You're gonna get me going again, you know that?"

Bucky kissed him quickly and hopped off the bed.

"Come on, I still gotta order that pizza," he said, tapping Clint's knee before he left the room.

Clint sighed and rolled off the bed.

"You think this will work?" Clint asked, as he stepped into the living room. Bucky had just picked up the phone to dial, and looked over at him.

"What do you mean?" He asked, his attention was half on Clint and half on the phone.

"I mean, us—if there is an 'us'—I don't want to…" he paused, rubbing the back of his neck, "…rush into anything." He felt so stupid saying that after what just happened.

Bucky frowned at the phone, realising he had no clue what he was doing. He didn't know any phone numbers. He felt like his head would explode. And he couldn't think straight with Clint yapping in his ear. He wanted to rip the phone off the wall and whip it at him. Maybe then he'd shut up.

"I don't know any pizza places," he mumbled, feeling anger rise inside him. He handed the phone to Clint and stared blankly at the floor. He was losing his mind.

Everything had felt so good five minutes ago, that Clint forgot about Bucky's mental state. He took the phone from him and ordered the pizza. After he hung up he found Bucky sitting on the couch staring blankly at the coffee table. It made him antsy seeing him like that, again. He couldn't stand to see him have another catatonic episode, one was enough. He walked over and sat beside him.

"James," he said softly and Bucky turned his head to him, but his eyes were still and lifeless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER CAME OUT A LOT LONGER THAN I EXPECTED???? 
> 
> NEXT ONE WILL BE POSTED IN THE NEXT FEW WEEKS!!!


	9. Chapter 9

"Von Strucker, we have lead on The Winter Soldier, sir," a Hydra agent said, standing at attention behind him.

Strucker made no sign that he heard him. They stood in an abandoned warehouse; Strucker stood in front of a window that, by the looks of it, had been smashed with a baseball bat. No one had been inside it for over a hundred years, so they decided to use it as their Hydra base for now. It would do for the time being. Plus, they weren't planning on staying long, if things went as planned. The agent cleared his throat and Strucker sighed, dramatically and turned his head over his shoulder.

"Yes, I know," he said. "And we will get to him, in time."

"But, sir—"

"Director Fury is too close to this mission. If we move now we won't stand a chance," he said, his voice echoing through the room.

"As you wish," he said, then bowed slightly. "Hail Hydra."

"Hail Hydra," Strucker said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turned to look out the window, again. A flock of pigeons flew up through the distant buildings. "Hail Hydra, indeed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my course is done this friday!!!! so ill be, hopefully, finishing this fic soon (by september? mid september?) 
> 
> and yes this is the whole chapter ^^ : ) just a short intro of things to come


	10. Chapter 10

The next morning Clint woke up drooling all over he arm. He jerked awake and wiped his arm off on his blanket before getting off the couch. He took a quick sweep around the apartment, it was oddly quiet, he thought. He had taken off his hearing aids for the yet, but it was a different quiet then usual. Then, sudden panic rised within him. He got up and swiftly made his way to the bedroom, praying to God Bucky was still asleep. He pushed the door open and exhaled in relief as he saw Bucky fast asleep on his stomach, sprawled out like a starfish. The blankets somehow tangled around him in all the weird ways, he wasn't even sure how blankets could get like that. Bucky shifted in his sleep and Clint's heart gave a leap. He turned to leave, but he stopped at the sound of Bucky's voice.  

 

"What are you doing?" He asked, face flat against the mattress. 

"Not watching you sleep, if that makes you feel any better," he said, sarcastically. Bucky rolled over so he was on his back now, staring up at the ceiling. 

"I'm sorry if I worry you," he said, then glanced at Clint. "And don't say I don't, because yesterday…" he paused, smiled, "…you made it pretty obvious." 

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and scoffed. 

"I wasn't _worried_ about _you_ ," he stressed, walking slowly towards the bed. Bucky raised a brow and smirked. 

"No?" He asked. Clint shook his head. 

"Never," he said, and his voice caught in his throat. 

Bucky leaned forward, got on his knees and sat up. Even on his knees he was taller than Clint by an inch or two. 

"So, yesterday morning," he started, stretching his words, "when I wasn't all there." 

"Hmm?" Clint said, leaning against the edge of the bed. Bucky traced a line up the front of Clint's shirt as he spoke, then settled both hands around his neck. Clint's eyes dropped to Bucky's lips, and he stared at them as he spoke. 

"And you kissed me," he whispered, his mouth hovering in front of Clint's. "That was, what? You do that with everyone, Archer?" 

Clint felt so weak around him, as if he he could just crumble to pieces, right here in front of him. He could barely find his words, he just exhaled jagged breaths. 

Bucky smirked. "You want me to stop?" He asked, and Clint shook his head. "My eyes are up here." 

Clint's eyes fluttered up for a second, then he let them fall back to his lips. 

"Are you reading my lips?" Bucky asked, then smiled. "Or do you wanna kiss me?" 

Clint placed both hands on either side of Bucky's side, his fingers curled into the shirt; soft cotton. He sighed, he was still so tired, he hadn't fully woken up yet. He leaned forward and kissed Bucky softly, then pulled away. 

"I was just reading your lips," Clint breathed, with a smile. And he brushed Bucky's hair out his eyes. 

"You're a horrible liar," Bucky said and kissed him, again. Clint pulled away. 

"I do worry about you," he said, and Bucky's jaw clenched. "But don't think you're a burden to me, because you're not. I love having you here," he said. 

"You can kick me out whenever you get sick of me," he said, and Clint laughed. "I'm serious! I'll go find Steve, bother him," he frowned, his brows furrowed. "Like…like old times." 

Clint's face fell grim. "Hey, easy." 

Bucky nodded. "I'm okay," he said, in a not-okay voice, and Clint brushed his hair out of his face, again, trying to comfort him. 

"We should cut your hair," he said, trying to pull his attention to something else. "Want me to do it?" Bucky leaned against Clint's hand rested on his cheek and nodded into it. 

" _Mmm_ ," he moaned softly into Clint's hand and sighed. "You're so good to me," he muttered, sleepily. 

"I care about you," he said and Bucky swayed on his knees, back and forth, before pulling Clint forward, trying to tug him onto the bed. Clint let out a soft hiss. "James…" he breathed. Bucky brushed his hair back in a daze and tugged Clint to come closer. Clint grabbed him by his wrists, gently and lowered them off his shirt. "Remember what you said yesterday?" 

"Screw what I said," he said, lusting after him. His head hurt so much, he didn't want to have to think about it. 

"We can't. You know we can't," he stressed, feeling bad, because he knew how Bucky felt. A knock came from the door, and Clint heard it, it was loud. He knew who it was, Natasha. His stomach sank and he swallowed hard. Bucky noticed the sudden fear in his eyes and his brows knitted together. 

"What's wrong?" He asked. "I'm sorry. Did I upset you?" 

Clint placed his hand over Bucky's mouth to quiet him and placed his index finger on his mouth, telling him to be quiet. 

"Natasha's at the door. If she finds you here she'll kill you. You gotta hide," he whispered and Bucky nodded. Clint dropped his hand and traced Bucky's bottom lip with his thumb. 

"Clint," Bucky said, grabbing Clint's wrist and lowering it. "I'll be fine. Answer the door." 

Clint stumbled into the living room, searching for his hearing aids in haste. He grabbed them off the kitchen counter, placed them in and opened the door. 

Natasha stood, her hair was now at shoulder length, straight. Clint pursed his lips. 

"New hair. I like it," he said. She smirked at him and stepped over the threshold. Clint closed the door and spun around. "Where have you been, anyway?" 

Natasha shrugged. "Classified." 

"Right," he sighed, annoyed. Everything was always a secret with her, he hated it. No matter how close they had gotten she had never been a hundred percent honest with him. She scanned the apartment carefully as she spoke. 

"I heard Fury came by yesterday. How did that go?" 

"He told me who The Winter Soldier really is," he said slowly, focusing on her reaction. She swallowed hard and shook her hair hair out of her face. 

"Oh. Well you already knew that, so…" She paused. She shifted her weight and her eyes darted around. Clint smirked. 

"So did you, Natasha." 

"What are you talking about?" She asked defensive. Clint folded his arms over his chest. Natasha stood with her jaw slacked. 

"You said you knew his name, who he really was even before Steve told me—you _brought_  Steve to tell me, when you could've told me yourself!"

"I saw his file," she hissed. "That's all!" 

"The Red Room, Natasha. You met him there, didn't you?" Clint spat, ignoring her. He was so sick of her keeping secrets from him. After all he's done for her. Natasha shook her head, jaw clenched tightly. Clint swallowed hard and took a step to her, reaching out to grab her hands, but she pulled away from him. 

"You have no right—how did you even…" she stumbled over her words, trying to find where to start. She couldn't believe him. "Did Fury tell you?" 

"I can't tell you." 

"What do you mean _you can't tell me_?" She hissed, advancing on him. He stood his ground, didn't move. His heart raced in his chest, he hated lying to her, but he couldn't let her near Bucky. She'd have to kill him before getting to him. 

"I mean I _won't_  tell you. It's…classified," he smirked. 

She searched his eyes for something, a smidge of the Clint Barton she knew, but it wasn't there. He was so different, something had changed him. She dropped her gaze and looked past his shoulders noticing the bedroom door was closed. It was _never_ closed. 

"You got someone in there?" She asked, nodding towards the door. Clint's smirked faltered. 

"What's it to you?" He asked, trying to act casual. There was no one in the room. You have nothing to hide. 

"What's her name, if you remember it," she teased him.

"Jame—" he stopped himself. "Jaimie. It's Jaimie," he said. That was a close one. Natasha raised a brow at him. 

"Well, I hope you and … _Jaimie_  have a good time together," she said, patting the front of his shirt down. "And you're right. I do know who James is, I mean I have known him, for a while. But that's all in the past. He's not who he used to be, people change." 

"Maybe he'll change back, if you give him a chance," he said. 

"I doubt it." She muttered. "The way we left things, he'd want me dead just as much as I want him dead." 

"What do you mean, the way you left things? What things?" Clint asked, agitated. 

Natasha met his eyes and sighed. 

"We were together, me and him. In love, actually." She felt so embarrassed saying those words. And Clint felt slightly jealous. 

"Oh," he croaked. "Oh." The word came out in one breath. 

 

* * *

After Natasha left he felt a hollow pit in his chest. Like she carved out part of him and took it with her. As soon as he closed the door the bedroom door opened and caught Clint's attention. Bucky walked out in half a daze, like he'd been sleeping the whole time, but Clint knew otherwise. He had been listening. And he remembered. Fortunately, it hadn't shocked him enough to send him spiralling into another catatonic state, but his face had gone pale and Clint dragged himself to him.  

He caught him by his good arm, hooking his hand around his elbow and lead him to the couch. They walked slowly, even though it was a few steps away, Clint didn't want to rush him. They sat down, side by side, Clint on the left Bucky on the right. They were quiet for a few minutes. Clint couldn't stand it. He felt like he was so far away from him, he wasn't even sure if he was allowed to touch him the way he had when they woke up. 

"Were you…did you love her?" He asked quietly, feeling a lump form at the back of his throat and he tried to force it down. 

Bucky turned to him, sighed, and clasped his hands together. He nodded. That's all he could will himself to do, he was too shocked to speak yet. He wanted to say so much, explain it all, reassure Clint that there was nothing between them anymore. How could there be? He had been brainwashed for years since then. But he knew by Clint's tone, his body language, he was tense, awkward. 

"Do you still? Is that why you wanted to see her?" He asked, and started to chew the bottom of his lip. 

Bucky shook his head, brows pushed forward. He opened his mouth to say something, his words were all jumbled in his head, he closed his mouth and pouted. He hated this. He hated Hydra for making him like this. 

"It's okay if you do. I'll back off if you do," Clint said, sullenly. He only wanted what was best for him, and if that was Natasha then he wouldn't stand in the way. 

"You're an idiot," Bucky muttered softly and smirked. He grabbed Clint in a head lock and held him tightly. 

"James, quit it!" Clint cried, trying to get out of it. It didn't help that Bucky had a metal arm, he couldn't use anything he knew on a metal arm. "Come on, let me go," he stressed and Bucky held him tighter, making him grunt. 

"Admit it!" He said, in a cheery voice. 

"Admit what?" Clint asked, confused, still trying to pull Bucky's arm off his throat. 

"That you're a jealous idiot!" 

Clint chuckled, painfully. His throat hurt, Bucky was holding him a bit too tight. 

"I'm not jealous. Please," he said, smug. 

"Oh no, not at all. Come on, just admit it." 

"You can hold me here, choke me to death. I won't admit it," he said, and Bucky opened his mouth to add a witty response. "Because, there's nothing to admit." 

Bucky groaned and let him go. "Maybe I'll go catch up to her." 

Clint adjusted his shirt around his shoulders and laughed softly. 

"Yeah, right." 

Bucky set his jaw and raised a brow. 

"You don't think I won't?" He leaned forward, as if to get up and Clint held his breath. "I'll catch up to her, we'll catch up. She'll see that I'm not the guy she thought I was and then we'll pick up right where we left off."

Clint shifted in his seat, his lips were pressed into a thin line. 

"Go then, what's stopping you?" He asked, not meeting his gaze. And Bucky shook his head. 

"You really _are_ an idiot," he said and grabbed Clint's hand in his own. A chill ran up Clint's arm and he felt his face go hot. 

"What?" 

"You're stopping me," he said and gave Clint's hand a squeeze. 

"No I'm not. You can go, I don't care," Clint said, not following.  Bucky rolled his eyes. 

"I don't want her!" He chortled and pulled Clint by his wrists so he was closer to him. Clint met his eyes. "I want you." 

Clint smiled. He felt like he just won the biggest prize at the carnival. 

"Yeah?" He asked and glanced at Bucky's mouth. His bottom lip popped out at him, almost inviting. Then Bucky ran his tongue over it before he spoke. 

"You gonna stare at me like that all day?" He asked. 

Clint blinked lazily and looked up at him. "Sorry," he swallowed. "We should…I should go get us some food," he said, pulling himself away from him, before he did something he would later regret. 

"You're gonna leave me here?" Bucky asked, shocked. 

"I trust you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to take a break for a few days and work on a new project : ) 
> 
> I'll update sometime in the next week!! 
> 
> Please comment!!! i love getting feedback it really helps and i wanna talk to u guys u guys keep me gOING!
> 
> (SORRY THE CHAPTER ORDER WAS MESSED UP BUT EVERYTHING IS FIXED FROM CH 8 - 10!! SORRY ABOUT THAT)


	11. Chapter 11

Bucky sat on the couch with Lucky to his right. He had been on his left earlier, but Bucky didn't want to let him with his metal arm. It didn't feel right. So now they say happily next to each other with the TV on. Bucky wasn't used to such a big TV. He was more interested in how thin it was than what he was actually watching. It blew his mind. Then a sudden memory came back to him. It was a rainy day, he was wrapped up in a blanket, sitting in front of a clunky TV he had as a kid, and Steve was sitting next to him. The memory felt so vivid he almost forgot he was in Clint's apartment. He blinked the memory away and glanced at Lucky.

The apartment was quite with Clint gone, not that they talked a lot, but being the only one in the apartment made him very aware of other sounds. He could hear the water dripping from the faucet in the kitchen, Lucky breathing, the humming of the fridge. Everything was so loud all of a sudden. He turned off the TV and got off the couch. Lucky sat up, his tail wagging. He barked and Bucky turned to him.

"Sorry, boy. I'm going to shower," he said, pet him behind the ears and went to his room.

He stood in the doorway for a few seconds as he looked around the room. He needed a change of clothes. He scratched the back of his head and exhaled. The closet didn't have much, but a few shirts, pants, and boxers. He grabbed a pair of boxers that looked like they'd fit, a pair of black cargo shorts that had holes in some places and a loose grey T-shirt. He found a towel in the closet and left the room.

Lucky stood in front of the door as he walked out. He started barking at him and ran to the front door. Bucky blew his hair out of his face and shook his head.

"Clint will be back soon. He'll take you out," he said, getting a bit annoyed. He just wanted to shower. Lucky whimpered and sat in front of the door with his paw over his snout.

Bucky undressed in the bathroom and tossed his clothes into the corner to pick up later. He set the water to a warm temperature and stepped in. As soon as the water hit his left arm it sparked and he frowned. He got out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist and went to the kitchen to get a plastic bag, or something to cover up his arm. He came back with his arm covered in cling wrap and two plastic bags. He sighed, wishing he was just armless instead. It would make his life a lot easier.

The water hitting the bags made the most annoying noise Bucky heard. He tried avoiding the water, keeping his arm in weird positions, until he finally gave up. The water ran warm over him and he would've stayed in there all day if he could.

By the time he got out he was sure Clint was back, but the apartment was still extremely quiet. He wiped the steam off the mirror and ran a hand through his hair. He barely recognised himself. His hair was way too long, he looked extremely sleep deprived, and then he saw the bags wrapped around his arm and tore them off. He quickly got dressed, picked up his clothes and towel, and left the bathroom.

He placed his clothes in the laundry basket Clint had in his bedroom, and sat back on the couch. He looked at the time, Clint had been gone longer than he thought he would. He started to worry that maybe something happened to him. What if he was taken? Or hurt? Bucky sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He needed to calm down, if anything happened to Clint he would know by now. He was just being paranoid.

He ran a handover his face and exhaled. He glanced down at the pillow and covers on the couch and decided to take a nap, since it seemed like Clint was going to take a while. It was the easiest way to pass the time. He lay down and pulled the covers over himself. The couch wasn't that comfortable and Bucky made a note to let Clint sleep with him that night. He shut his eyes and let sleep come.

The dreams that came to him were more memories starting surface. They didn't hit him as hard anymore, he had gotten used to them now. The dream he had kept switching between a number of different memories he could barely keep track of them all. He tossed and turned on the couch, until he eventually rolled off the couch and woke up with a start on the floor.

Half asleep, he heard the front door creak open and he started to panic. His first thought wasn't that Clint came back, but instead that someone was breaking into his apartment. His heart raced in fear and he stood up, holding the blanket in both hands. He moved closer to the door and threw the covers on whoever walked inside and wrapped his arms around them. They dropped what they were carrying and squirmed in his grip.

"Bucky, what the hell!" Clint shouted and Bucky staggered back in shock. Clint pulled the blanket off his head and dropped it on the floor, and spun around to face Bucky.

"I'm sorry, Clint. I'm…I'm so sorry," Bucky muttered, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. Clint took a step closer to him and grabbed his wrists.

"What happened?" He asked, worried and confused.

Bucky frowned shaking his head. He wasn't even sure what had happened. He was so disorientated.

"I thought you were someone else," he muttered. "I was sleeping and I guess I heard the door and I…I don't know."

"I'm sorry I took so long," Clint said. "I should've been quicker." Bucky shook his head then nodded. Clint chuckled softly.

"Sorry. I don't wanna tell you what to do, Barton, but you did take longer than I thought you would," Bucky admitted. "And what if…what if something happened to me—or...or you?"

"Christ, Barnes," Clint breathed. "I'd never let anything happen to you, or me. You believe that, don't you?"

Bucky shrugged. He wasn't sure what to believe. Everything felt so out of reach to him. He wanted to believe Clint but part of him, the part Hydra created, told him not to. He hated that part. Every time he walked by a window, a mirror, anything with a reflection, he'd see that arm they gave him and he be reminded of the torture they put him through, the monster he had become. He twisted out of Clint's grasp and stepped away from him, and nodded.

"Yeah, I believe that," he said, running his good hand up the metal arm. A chill ran up his spine and he looked up at Clint through his lashes.

"What?" Clint asked, brows raised.

"Can you do something for me?" He asked timidly, and ran his fingers through the front of his hair. "Cut my hair?"

Clint nodded and smiled.

"I could shave it all off," he said as he grabbed Bucky by the shoulders, leading him to the bathroom.

"Don't care what you do. I just want it to be different," Bucky chuckled and stumbled into the bathroom.

Clint squeezed his shoulders softly and gave him a reassuring nod.

"No one's gonna be able to keep their eyes off you once I'm done," he said and Bucky smirked.

"Ah, just what I want," he joked. "All eyes on me."

Clint shoved him. "You know, that wise mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day."

Bucky chuckled and sat on the toilet cover, and pulled Clint closer to him so his waist was just about at eye level.

"Shut up and cut my hair already."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im getting my wisdom tooth out this week so i'll be slow with the updates for a while :-( 
> 
> I hope u guys enjoy this chapter!!


	12. Chapter 12

His right hand shook holding the mug as he stared out the window of the coffee shop. Sam Wilson sat across him, his left hand rested on top of the table between them and his fingers tapped a rhythm as he studied Steve's agitation.

"Steve?"

Steve sat in a daze and nodded still staring out the window.

"Huh?"

"Something bothering you, man?" He asked, raising his brow. Steve shook his head, but the mug still jittered in his grasped, sending coffee spilling over the edge. Sam cringed. "You're gonna burn yourself."

Steve looked down at his hand and frowned. He noticed he'd been on edge for the past few days. He'd zone out, feel something was off, then snap out if it like it never happened. He hadn't paid mind to it much until people started calling him out on it. He took his napkin off the table and wiped down his mug and hand.

"Sorry, Sam," he sighed, leaning back in his chair. He started turning over the coaster on the table, back in a daze.

"You gotta talk to me—someone—you haven't been yourself," he said. "What's going on?"

Steve met his gaze, still turning over the coaster. He didn't know where to begin.

Just last week he was sure he saw a black car following him. It had been parked almost everywhere he went, and even if he hadn't seen it some days, he was sure it had been there just out of view. He had also seen a few guys eyeing him, too. He made sure he stayed in a public space, close to exits, just in case anything where to happen. It had been driving him crazy. He dropped his gaze and scoffed.

"I feel like…" he swallowed and pursed his lips trying to figure out how he was going to explain. "I feel like something's wrong. Something really bad is coming. Maybe for me…maybe someone else. I just…" he paused, his words leaving him and he shrugged.

Sam exhaled and leaned back. "Your spider senses tingling, huh, Cap?" He teased. Steve nodded and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Something like that, yeah," he said.

"You wanna call Fury? Natasha? You got some kinda psychic visions now or something?" Sam joked and Steve glared at him. "Sorry."

"No, uh...Clint," he said.

"What's he gotta do with any—"

"Everything," Steve stressed and Sam's brows knitted together.

"You not telling me something?"

"I don't tell you a lot of things," Steve chuckled. "We should go."

"Are you gonna tell me what's going on?" Sam asked as Steve stood up and took his jacket off the back of his chair. He turned to Sam and nodded.

"Come on," Steve said. "I'll fill you in on the way there."


	13. Chapter 13

Bucky stood in front of the bathroom mirror, running his fingers through his hair repeatedly. Clint stood to his right grinning wide. He knew Bucky loved the haircut, he could see it in his eyes, they were beaming in the mirror. It was like he couldn't see anything else but his new do. Bucky gawked at himself. He looked like himself again, the self he knew before Hydra had taken him. It brought back better memories, even memories he didn't know he had. It was refreshing to say the very least. He shook his head, speechless. 

"Well, I like it," Clint beamed and Bucky had trouble finding his words. 

"I love it," Bucky exhaled and turned to Clint. "Thank you." 

Clint shrugged and shook his head. "Anything else you need me to do, I'll do it." 

Bucky hesitantly glanced at his left arm and back at Clint with pleading eyes. "Could you get rid of this piece of crap?" He asked and left out a strained chuckle. 

Clint frowned. He felt horrible about Bucky's arm and he knew how much it bothered him having a mark from Hydra permanently attached to you, forever. It sucked. He wanted to make it all go away, to make Bucky forget about all the horrible things they did to him. He inhaled sharply and shook his head. 

"I'm sorry, I…" he hesitated and Bucky laced his fingers with Clint's, and nodded. 

"Yeah, I know," he breathed. "I know." 

_Knock, knock_

Clint and Bucky cocked their heads to the bathroom door and back at each other in confusing. Clint wasn't expecting anyone. He groaned and left Bucky in the bathroom. 

"Should I wait here?" Bucky called out and Clint back peddled, waving his arms telling him stop talking. He put a finger to his lips and shushed him. 

"If someone hears you!" Clint snapped and Bucky nodded. 

"Right, sorry," he said in a hurt voice. 

"Just stay here," he said, rubbing his forehead. "And don't make any noise," he stressed before leaving. 

Bucky frowned dismally. He knew Clint wasn't _trying_  to hurt him, but his words still stung him. He sat on the toilet seat and exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair and wondered how much longer they'd have to keep this up. He hated being kept locked away, although he knew it was for his own safety, he still hated it. 

* * *

"I'm sorry, what?" Clint asked, leaning against the threshold at the front door. Fury stood across him, looking as intimidating and angry as he always did, maybe even more than usual. 

"Hydra, Barton," Fury said, raising a brow at him. "In the city." 

Clint's breath suddenly got shallow and he swallowed hard. He frantically tapped the threshold. 

"Are they looking for him?" He asked, although not hiding anything in his voice. It came out strained in a worried tone. 

"You've dealt with enemies worst than Hydra," Fury said, then corrected himself. "Okay, maybe you haven't. But you're a good agent, Clint. I'm sure you'll get to James before they do." He patted Clint on the shoulder and Clint gave a hesitant grin.

"About that, Director—" Clint started, wanting to tell him everything. He couldn't risk everything anymore, not with Hydra so close. He was sure to get caught. 

"Look, just lay low for a while," Fury said, ignoring Clint. 

"What?" 

"If we stay off their radar they won't get a lead on him. And if you really want to go looking for him, stay up high," he winked and turned to leave. 

"Uh, Fury — Director…" Clint called and Fury turned back. 

"Something you wanna tell me?" He asked, and Clint narrowed his eyes at him. 

"No—Nothing. Thanks for stopping by," he said, immediately regretting it. 

"Oh, before I forget," he said, and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a DVD case. He handed it to Clint. "Take a look at this and get back to me about it." 

Clint studied the case over in his hands and glanced up at Fury, confused, but he nodded. 

"Right. I will." He shut the door and exhaled. "This isn't going to work," he muttered to himself and started to the bathroom. 

He opened the door and saw Bucky hunched over on the toilet seat, his face in his hands and he sat up slowly. 

"You gonna kiss me now or something?" He asked, spiteful. Clint's brows pushed together and he stepped into the bathroom. 

"What?" 

Bucky looked up at him. "You gonna start telling me how much you _want_  me, huh?" 

Clint shook his head confused, and opened his mouth to speak but Bucky cut him off. 

"Is someone else coming by? Where are you gonna shove me in next time?" He asked, anger rising in him. 

"I don't like hiding you away, James," he hissed, getting tired of him, at the moment. "I hate it. I do it to—" 

"To protect me? Or are you doing it to protect yourself?" He asked, and Clint bit the inside of his bottom lip. 

"I'm protecting you," he said softly, even though he felt the floor being pulled from beneath him. "I'm always protecting you, James." 

Bucky sighed. "I know. I just hate being shoved into the nearest room and being ordered to be quiet every time someone comes over," he said quietly, his anger had subsided. 

Clint got on his knees in front of him and hesitated to touch him at all. 

"Next time someone comes over, no matter who it is, I won't hide you," he said and Bucky looked at him in shock. 

"What if you get in trouble?" He asked. Clint shrugged. 

"I'll deal with it," he said. 

"I'm sorry I snapped at you like that," Bucky started. "I wish this…whatever this is between us…I wish it was easier, is all." 

Clint nodded in understanding. "I know," he held out the DVD case Fury had given him and waved it in front of Bucky. "He gave me this to watch, you wanna have a look?" He asked. Bucky nodded and stood up. He looked down at Clint, still on his knees and he turned a light shade of red, and smirked nervously. 

"Look good on your knees," he muttered. Clint's cheeks went red and he stood up, and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. He pointed to the door, but his eyes were focused on Bucky's lips. He swallowed hard. 

"We should go," he breathed and Bucky nodded, and walked out first.  

* * *

Clint was knelt down beside the TV taking the DVD out of its case and popping it into the DVD player. He walked backwards to the couch and Bucky handed him the remote control. As Clint set everything up Bucky watched in awe, asking a million questions. 'What does this button do?', 'How is everything connected to the TV?', 'How is it so small?', and so on. Eventually Clint got the DVD set up and Bucky stopped asking questions and they sat in silence watching…a video surveillance. 

"Isn't that your apartment?" Bucky asked quietly, and pointed at the screen. Clint nodded and sped up the video. It spend up through the evening to the next morning and then cut out. Clint turned to Bucky and he shrugged. "Maybe you missed something? Rewind it." 

Clint did just that then caught a glimpse of someone running into the building. He paused the clip and got up to get a closer look, and he turned to Bucky. 

"It's you," he said tightly, and Bucky knit his brows. 

"Me?" 

"When you got shot," Clint said and quickly sped up the video, again. It cut out and his stomach felt heavy. He sat down and opened the DVD case. This time a piece of paper was taped to the back of where the disk goes, and on it, scribbled in Fury's handwriting was: 

 

_I have eyes everywhere and ears everywhere else._

 

Clint chuckled nervously and closed the case slowly. Bucky leaned forward and asked what was so funny. 

"He—I think—knows about you being here," he said slowly, as if not believing it himself. 

"How?" Bucky choked on his words, making his voice come out deeper than it was. 

"The video," he pressed play and the video played over, "you never left my place." 

Bucky stared at the TV in a daze and shook his head, muttering to himself too quietly for Clint to hear him. 

"I'll have to leave, then," he finally said a bit louder and Clint turned off the TV and turned to him. 

"No! No you don't, James. What are you talking about?" He asked, his heart raced so quick he thought it would come out his mouth. 

"He knows I'm here. He'll send someone for me. They always send someone," his voice broke off and he stood up, and ran his hands through his hair. "I have to go. I have to." He repeated in mutters, looking around paranoid. Clint reached for his hand and pulled him back to sit down. 

"You're not going anywhere," he said. Bucky shifted in his seat. 

"But Clint—" 

"If Fury wanted to do something to you he would've done it by now," he said, trying to reassure him. 

"If he knows where I am someone else might, too," he argued and pulled his hand out of Clint's grasp. 

"I'm not letting you go anywhere. You're safe here, James," he said and hesitated but added, "Hydra's out there looking for you," – Bucky looked at him with wide eyes – "if you leave now, they'll find you. I can't have that." 

Bucky's leg shook up and down, up and down, and Clint placed his hand on it to calm him down. Bucky sighed and nodded. 

"Okay. You're right. I'll stay," he said, softly. 

"I'll call Fury and get things straightened out," he said and got up. "Just relax, alright? I'll take care of you," he said and kissed the top of his head. 


	14. Chapter 14

Clint twirled the phone cord around his fingers as he spoke to Fury. They'd been talking for about an hour, going back and forth about what to do with Bucky, how long he'd known, where Hydra was, their plan. Bucky sat at the kitchen counter sipping at his mug. Clint had made him a tea to calm him down, and now Bucky sat listening to Clint.  

"I can keep him here, he'll be—I trust him, Fury. He's not going to—I'll keep my eyes out for Hyd—no, Natasha doesn't trust—okay," his eyes shot over at Bucky, who raised a brow in question, "yeah, alright. I'll let you know if anything comes up. Thanks Fury." He hung up and sighed loudly. 

"Good talk?" Bucky asked, sipping his tea. 

"He's gonna set up, uh," he rubbed his forehead with the back of his fingers, "Shield agents around the block." 

"Does he trust me?" 

Clint hesitated and set his jaw. "If he didn't you'd be dead," he said, trying to joke around, but Bucky's face fell grim and Clint cleared his throat, and sat across Bucky at the table. 

"So what do we do now? I mean, now that Hydra's looking for me," Bucky asked, and Clint saw his fingers shaking slightly around his mug. He grabbed his hand softly and squeezed it. 

"All you have to do is enjoy your time here. I don't have to keep you a secret anymore," he said brightly, and Bucky smiled and nodded. Clint smiled. "There's that smile!" 

"Oh, shut up," Bucky said, still grinning. Clint leaned forward. 

"Why don't you make me?" He whispered and Bucky shuttered. 

"Archer…" he breathed and inhaled through his teeth. Clint smiled and hummed softly. 

"Love it when you call me that," he hissed softly, leaning closer to him so their lips hovered over each other. 

"Oh yeah?" He asked, teasing him. Clint nodded, his eyes glazed studying Bucky's mouth. 

"You think we can, uh" he flicked his tongue out, wetting his lips, "you know." 

"Whatever you wanna do, Archer," Bucky hissed and kissed him slowly, their lips parting. Clint *mm'd* softly into him and then phone rang. 

"Aw phone," Clint muttered into Bucky's lips and reluctantly pulled away. 

He walked reluctantly to the phone, still lingering on the kiss, and picked up the receiver 

"Hello?…Fury?" He said shocked. "No, I understand. I'm on my way." 

Bucky sighed and looked down at his mug. 

"I'll be back soon. You're safe here, okay. Just don't answer the door—there's a fire escape if you're desperate. Stay underground if anything happens," Clint said as he got his gear together and swung his quiver over his shoulder. 

"You worry too much," Bucky said softly. 

"I worry because I care about you, Barnes. I'll be quick. Faster than that Maximoff kid—don't ask," he grabbed his keys and turned to leave. "I love you." And with that he was out the door, not even realising what he had just said. 

The door shut with a soft _click_ and Bucky sat slack jawed, staring at the closed door. He couldn't believe what Clint just said, not that he hadn't thought about it, but he wasn't expecting it at the moment. He tried to hold back his smile but failed. He lifted the mug to his mouth and took a sip. The tea tasted sweeter than ever, and warmed every part of his body. 

* * *

Clint glided down the sidewalk, shoving through crowds of people. He held his bow over his head, apologising whenever he'd bump someone, or knock something over. He knew he was clumsy, but today was worse than ever. Fury needed him right away and he couldn't afford taking his time. He slipped down the nearest alleyway and started up a ladder. The weather on the rooftops was colder than being in the ground, but he got used to it. It almost soothed him in a way.  

As he hopped from roof to roof he spotted a black SUV speeding down the street parallel to the buildings. He narrowed his eyes and pulled an arrow from his quiver, and readied his bow. He picked up speed, running towards the car as it came down the street, and once it was in range he pulled the string of his bow back, aimed, and let go. The arrow whistled through the air and landed on the shield of the car. Clint smirked and counted down. 

"Three…two...one..." 

The arrow exploded and the car swerved off the road, and hit a fire hydrant. Water shot out of the ground, drenching the car, but not putting out the flames. No one survived the crash, which made Clint's job easier. He hated having to get his hands dirty.   

* * *

"So, let me get this straight," Sam started as Steve turned a corner on his motorcycle. Sam yelled over the engine. "Your old pal, Bucket—" 

"Bucky! Sam, it's Bucky!" Steve corrected him for the tenth time. 

"Your old pal,  _Bucky_  comes back after so and so years, and we're just supposed to trust him?" 

Steve nodded. "That's about right."

"This is the stupidest idea you've ever had," Sam said and Steve chuckled. 

"So you're not gonna help?" He asked.  

"Oh no, I'm going to help. I just think it's a stupid idea," Sam laughed. 

* * *

Bucky set his mug down in the sink, turned on the faucet and let water fill up in the mug. He dried his hands on the towel that Clint left laying around, and went to lay on the couch. Lucky sat on the floor by his legs and Bucky smiled at him. He felt stupid, but having Lucky around gave him a sense of comfort. As if a dog could protect him from everything. Bucky scoffed and reached for the remote. He flicked on the TV and started switching channel, when all of a sudden the TV shut off. His brows knit together and he pushed the power button on the remote. Nothing happened. He groaned and sat up. He didn't know how to fix a TV so he decided to just leave it and ask Clint to fix it when he got back. 

The three words he had said still lingered in the air and he wished he could've said that back, because of course he loved him, too. Ever since the day Clint had nursed him back to health, he knew he felt strongly about him. He glanced down at where Lucky had been to find an empty spot, and he frantically looked around. He found him standing by the front door, sniffing at the crack, and Bucky assumed Clint was on his way up. 

"Who's there, boy?" Bucky asked, getting off the couch. He got to the door and looked through the peephole, but what he saw wasn't even close to Clint. He caught a glimpse of a patch on one guy's shoulder. It was a red skull with serpents curling out of the base. His breath came in shallow heaves and he quickly turned towards the fire escape that Clint had mentioned. 

Just as he was about to climb down, he saw a black SUV pull up into the alleyway and a number of Hydra agents pooled out, surrounding him. He gulped down his fear and headed back up into the apartment. He'd rather not fall. He didn't want to wake up with a second metal arm, property of Hydra. 

Greeting him back in the apartment was Von Striker, leader of Hydra, and a number of his soldiers. Two grabbed Bucky by the arms as soon as he came back inside. He thrashed in their grasp, but that didn't do any good. They shoved him into the floor and restrained him, both soldiers holding him down as Von Striker spoke. 

"It's a shame you left us," he started, pacing around the apartment. "You were our best weapon." 

"I'm not your weapon!" Bucky spat, his cheek was pushed into the floor, making it harder for him to speak. "I don't belong to Hydra!" 

Von Striker stood so his feet were directly in front of Bucky's face.  

"You will remember your place soon enough," he hissed and gestured at the soldiers to pick him up, and they did, forcefully. 

"I know my place, and it's not with  _you_ ," he said tightly, and the soldiers pushed him forward. 

Von Striker sighed dully and picked at fluff on his shirt as he spoke. 

"Get him to the car, tie him. Make sure he stays quiet," he hissed at his soldiers, then walked out the door first. 

"Yes, sir. Hail Hydra," the two soldiers holding Bucky said simultaneously, which sent a chill up Bucky's spine. They pushed him out the door and he grimaced. He hoped Clint would find him before they wiped his memory, again. The last thing he wanted was to forget him. 

* * *

"Hydra has infiltrated the city. We need to keep an eye out for possible threats," Fury said. He had just finished catching him up on where Hydra was stationed and where they've been spotted. 

"I just wiped out an SUV on the way here. They're showing up all over the place," Clint hissed. 

"Any survivors?" Fury asked. Clint shook his head. "Good. Wipe out as many as you can." 

"They're looking for him, aren't they?" Clint asked tightly. 

"He's safe, Barton. The whole block is set up." 

"Still. Something doesn't feel right," he said, feeling uneasy. "I should go back." 

"Keep your eyes out," Fury said. 

"Always do," he replied with a smirk and left. 

Deep down in his gut he could feel something was wrong. He wasn't sure what to call it, instinct, a hunch. Whatever it was, he hoped he was wrong about it. 

* * *

Steve dismounted his bike in front of Clint's apartment. Sam got off right after him and placed his hands on his hips, looking at the apartment.  

"Can't he get himself something better?" He asked and Steve scoffed. "I mean, being part of Shield, I'd ask for a mansion. He's totally wasting his privilege." 

Steve lead the way upstairs. When they got to Clint's door, Steve noticed it was left a crack open. They exchanged worried looks and approached the door slowly. Sam pushed the door open and stepped to the side. When they were sure the coast was clear, they entered and Steve tensed. 

_Bucky!_

A voice came from downstairs. Sam and Steve turned their attention to the open door and saw Clint run through it. He hunched over, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath. 

"Is he—why are you—where's Ja—James?"

Steve shook his head, his eyes were sad and Clint knew. He cursed under his breath and threw his bow on the ground. His hands shook. 

"Damn it!" He hissed, and suddenly remembered what he had said before he left. If he wasn't so mad he would've blushed, but instead he swallowed and cleared his throat. "Why are you guys here?" 

"We came to warn you about a possible threat," Steve said dully.

"Yeah, I know. It's Hydra," he paused to gauge Steve's reaction. It was intense and tight. "You already knew." 

"I had a feeling. They were following me, guess they thought I'd lead them to Bucky."

Clint nodded then shook his head. 

"I promised him he was safe here," he muttered. "Fuck!" 

"We can all stand around beating ourselves up," Sam started, "or we can make a plan." 

Steve glanced at him. 

"I still think this is a stupid idea, but I can see he means a lot to the both of you, so we gotta get him back." 

Clint nodded and Steve crossed his arms over his chest. 

"He's right. We need a plan," Clint said. "And I know where to start." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys im sorry for not updating in a long while :(( i haven't had time to finish the next chapter yet, but it's almost done!! school's just been keeping me busy :'(


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